


Somewhere in Between

by 1eve7



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Awkward? virgins, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben Solo is lowkey a nudist and wishes Rey was too, But it's actually serious, But make it spicy, Eventual Smut, F/M, Farthest thing from a slow burn in the history of ever, Finn is having a confusing time on the side, First Time, Fluff, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Healing, Force-Sensitive Leia Organa, Happy Ending, I should probably clarify that the archive warning has nothing to do with Ben or Rey, Just let the space idiots be happy, Kylo Ren gets kissed and Ben Solo pops out, Loyal Ben Solo, Loyal Rey, Luke Skywalker is still alive, Maybe Stormpilot, Maybe finnrose, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Original Character(s), Obsession themes from villain POV, Rey Needs A Hug, Rey is Not a Palpatine, Rey is highkey horny and doesn't know how to deal with it half of the time, SO MUCH FLUFF, Soft Ending, Sorta on the run, TFA canon, TROS?, The Force Ships It, The Knights of Ren are sassy mfs and that's CANON, There's just a lot of grey area in what makes a major character, They're practically a married couple by the end of chapter one, Touch-Starved, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vague mentions of masturbation, Who is she?, mostly TLJ canon, so I'm playing it safe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 139,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23307559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1eve7/pseuds/1eve7
Summary: “Let them go, and I—" her voice wobbles before finishing, “I will too.” Ben lets out a breath of what he thinks is relief, but before he has a chance to respond she continues, “I’ll go anywhere with you, anywhere in the whole galaxy. But I won’t stay here.”~After the throne room battle on theSupremacy, Kylo and Rey make a compromise.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 339
Kudos: 390





	1. Come With Me

“Please...” The word falls from Kylo’s lips with a tremble he doesn’t attempt to mask. He needs her to know how much he wants this: her, standing beside him.

Twin tears glisten down her cheeks as her gaze fixates on his outstretched hand. She’s still for what seems like eons, before lifting her own hand bit by bit. He thinks — if only for a moment — that she might attack him, take advantage of his display of vulnerability. But he can see the way her fingers twitch, wanting to close the gap between them, yet incapable of doing so for some reason beyond his knowledge.

He takes a step towards her, lessening the distance, hoping to ease the burden of her uncertainty. But she flinches away and slams her already extended hand square against his chest, instinctively preventing him from coming any closer.

Neither moves.

His breaths become shallow.

The only sound in the galaxy is the quickening rush of blood through his ears. 

Until Rey’s hand trails upwards, rustling the fabric of his tunic, and resting firmly atop his left shoulder. Grounding him in place, keeping him still. He finds himself compelled to look away, allowing her the illusion of privacy to decide where she’ll go from here. Will she stay? _Stay, stay, stay..._

Even through layers of clothing, Kylo can feel the warmth of her hand searing into his skin. And her Light, though not entirely pure, is blinding and true as it flows between them. He knows he could never force her to stay in a place like this, he could never force her to do anything at all. He’d tried once before. And how had that worked out for him? No. He could not push her down one pre-paved path or another. She destroyed pavings, this desert girl. She went where her will — or the will of the Force — took her. She would make her own way in the galaxy, free from notions of what she ought to do and be. Free from him.

Which is why her hand moving again, skimming up the side of his neck to cup his cheek softly, draws a startled breath he was unaware of holding. Kylo’s eyes snap to hers instantly. Her skin feels white-hot against his as the contact brings with it another vision. Not as vivid or jarring as when their hands had touched just a few short hours ago, this time it’s more of a feeling pouring over him than anything else. Something akin to determination or resolve. _Is this you?_ he ponders at her. Is this a decision made? Will she join him after all?

Rey’s eyes never waver from his as she takes a step closer, the toes of their boots nearly touching, and presses her hand more firmly against the side of his face. Kylo leans into her touch and — in a moment of rare courage — turns his face, pressing a kiss into the palm of her hand. She startles for a moment and Kylo, afraid she’ll retract completely, tucks his Grandfather’s lightsaber into his belt and places his hand atop hers, holding her there. Fervently, he kisses her palm again and again and again, showing her as before how desperately he wants, no, needs her here. 

He needs to know if Snoke was truly the only catalyst for their bond’s blooming. He needs to learn why she was the one to finally break through his defenses and take a look inside after all these years. He needs to be understood by someone, someone familiar with isolation, someone who will listen and care when no one else will. He needs goodness for once in his life. He needs her. He needs Rey.

_Rey..._

“Rey...” he says her name like a prayer as his hands fall to her waist and his head dips down to hers. But she pushes back from him, both her hands now balled in fists against his chest; another barrier. Though this one crumbles substantially faster than usual, the startled tension in her body dissipating. Her palms flatten on his chest, skimming lower, over his ribs and holding at his sides. Her fingers tickle the breath in his lungs and it takes all his strength not to shiver. Instead, he lets out a contented huff, pride intact, and attempts to kiss her again. But, in a sudden movement, her arms wrap firmly about his back as she buries her face in his tunic.

His arms tighten around her in natural response, but he feels awkward with her head so close to his heart. She’ll hear it’s erratic beating, she’ll know just how nervous she’s made him. She still hasn't given him a response.

It dawns on him then that everything she’s doing is rather customary for a goodbye.

_No..._

Bringing his lips to the crown of her head, he whispers into her hair, “Rey?” _Are you going to leave?_ She shakes her head, he knows not in response to his thoughts. “Rey, please...” _Don’t go._

Her head tilts up just so under his chin and she whispers back to him, “Ben...”

Kylo stops breathing altogether as her warm lips gently sear into the column of his throat. “Ben.” Then his chin. “Ben.” Briefly against his mouth, and he shudders at that. “Ben.” The tip of his nose. “Ben.” Between his brows. “Ben.” His forehead. “Ben.” She trails her kisses down the scar she gave him on _Starkiller_ , and after each one, his name falls off her lips as if to coax something dormant out from within him. 

He tries to remain still, give her the time she needs, but his nerves are aflame and she still hasn’t answered him. Perhaps with her body, but not with her words. 

He has to know. 

Tilting his head away, he lowers his mouth to her neck, copying her previous ministrations. Only he pauses at her lips, pressing into her more than she did him. He’s sloppy, he knows, but she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she welcomes it. She lets him push and pull desperately at her mouth because she does the same to him. And it feels _so good_. Honest. It feels right and comfortable, and like a home he never knew he had. He doesn’t want to stop.

But he needs to know.

He pulls away from her, if only just, and nuzzles his nose against hers. “Stay.” His voice sounds unfamiliar to his ears, like a stranger speaking through his body.

She sighs and kisses him quickly, “I want to.” In her silence, Ben allows himself to revel, to soak in his victory, to perhaps almost smile. “But I can’t.”

Her words nearly take his knees out from under him. After all of this? She won’t stay with him? She won’t allow herself to delight in all that he can offer her?

He should be angry, under any other circumstance he would be, but he finds himself unhinging her arms from around his torso and grasping her hands. Bringing them to his lips and... _Am I crying?_

“Please, stay.”

The look she gives him is what finally does it, what brings him to his knees: conflict.

Ben Solo topples to the floor and begs, kissing her hands over and over, salt tracks flowing down his cheeks and between her fingers. Eventually, Rey joins him on the ground, though with her dignity still about her. She swipes tenderly at his now puffy eyes, removing all traces of moisture. Humming, she brushes the hair out of his face and settles one hand at the nape of his neck. “Ben.” She says his name now like a request, like she needs him. He wants to be needed. “Ben, stop the attack. Let the Resistance go.”

Once again, at any other moment, he would be filled with an unyielding rage, but something in him has shifted. Shifted at the prospect of a loss he wouldn’t be able to come back from this time. His very soul crying out to not lose this something, this undeniably good something. A weak “I can’t...” is all he can muster, mimicking Rey again though not intending to. Her fingers card through his sweat-damp hair once more and he can feel her thinking. 

“Let them go, and I—" her voice wobbles before finishing, “I will too.” Ben lets out a breath of what he thinks is relief, but before he has a chance to respond she continues, “I’ll go anywhere with you, anywhere in the whole galaxy. But I won’t stay here.” 

_Anywhere?_

Her hands rest on his shoulders, rubbing the rigidity there away in small, soft circles. She must know how difficult she’s made this for him. _Why can’t she stay?_ As if reading his mind — and perhaps, she truly has — she explains, “I don’t want this—” she squeezes his shoulders warmly to indicate this strange and sudden togetherness they’ve found, “if you let the First Order control you.” He’s about to argue, but she carries on, “You can tell me that we’d forget the past, and make our own laws, and bring peace. But we’d still be here, answering to all that the galaxy knows the First Order to be. We’d never be able to create something new if all we’re surrounded by is old. Change doesn’t come easily, and especially not here.” She pauses. “So come with me.”

For longer than he cares to admit, he can only stare at her. She _wants_ to make something new with _him_. She _wants_ to grow and change with _him_. She _wants_ to be with _him_. She _wants him_.

She must take his silence for uncertainty because she proceeds with her proposition, “You told me before to let the past die. To kill it.” Her breath shakes for a second or two. Is she as nervous as him at the prospect of this newness? “Well, I need someone to help me do that.” Her hands lift to cup his face, while his find the gentle slope of her hips. “I need you, Ben.”

Oh, she _needs_ him too. Her words leave him feeling heady. She can’t mean that. She’ll come to her senses soon enough and leave him to suffocate in his loneliness as he deserves. Because he doesn’t deserve this: her goodness, her Light, her hope in him. But she’s looking at him like he could shake the stars. And he can’t. He can’t. He can’t. Not even for her. He doesn’t deserve her.

“Rey, I don’t know how—“

“I already told you I’d help you.” She pulls his face forward and rests her forehead against his. “We’ll help each other.” 

He’s about to ask exactly how she plans to bring down the First Order between just the two of them when the elevator door opens, revealing a slender, red-headed man. 

Hux surveys the room with an expression so scandalized it’s almost comical. The embers still flying haphazardly through the air. The dispatched Praetorian Guards smoldering on the floor. Snoke’s severed, cooling body, limp upon the steps of his throne. Ben's arms holding fast to Rey as her hands fall from his face, surprise painting her features at the ginger general’s presence.

“TRAITOR!”

_So that’s what it feels like..._ , Ben thinks, allowing himself a moment to wallow on the receiving end of the declaration. 

Before he has the chance to analyze the predicament he and Rey have stumbled into, Hux produces a blaster from somewhere within his coat, leveling it right with Ben’s face from across the room.

He fires.

Ben knows, even if he could unclasp his saber and ignite it, he would never have time to block the blaster bolt hurtling towards him. _There are worse ways to go..._ , he thinks, under his circumstances. He’s worn disguises all his life. His childhood was spent stifling his fears, his bitterness, his Darkness. And after Luke’s betrayal, he’d forged himself into something foreign and cold with a true mask. How befitting that he should die faceless.

But something rattles inside him, no, around him. The floor vibrates and the walls shift. The whole ship lurches as a deafening crack fills his ears. 

In the span of a second, he and Rey fall apart from the impact and Ben finds his head making contact with the hard, stone flooring. His sight blears, his eyes beg to be closed, and he gladly obliges them. Though not before he watches a strong, lithe arm reach out and send a laser bolt back towards the blaster from which it came.


	2. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey and Ben make it off the _Supremacy_.

Rey allows herself a moment to simply stare up at the ceiling. Her elbows twinge from trying to stay upright as she was flung across the room. What happened? Had they crashed? Into _what_?

She sits up with a grunt, her entire spine aching. Surely, she hadn’t hit the ground that hard.

Scanning the room, her eyes land on the unusual ginger-haired man’s crumpled form. _Is he dead? Did I...?_ She can’t think about that right now. If she hadn’t done what she’d done, that man would have killed...

“BEN!” Rey scrambles up off the floor, spinning around frantically. _Where did he go?_ For a sickening moment, she thinks he’s left her. Tossed her aside in disinterest, clawing open that childhood wound that never fully healed. Then she hears it: a sluggish, aggravated sigh. Rushing towards the noise, she finds him sprawled on his back near Snoke’s throne, his legs shifting uncomfortably as he struggles to regain his consciousness.

Rey crouches beside him and brushes the hair off his face, shoving his arm with urgency in an attempt to wake him. “Ben! We have to go!” She’s still unsure as to what the _Supremacy_ rammed into, but if it was important, — and it sure sounded that way — more than just the red-haired man will be coming to check on the now late Supreme Leader.

_He’s dead..._ , Rey muses, _Snoke’s dead and Ben killed him._ A secret, self-absorbed part of her mind wants to believe that he did it for her. And perhaps, in part, he did. But Rey knows Snoke’s halved body, strewn unceremoniously about his throne, is the result of Ben taking a part of himself back. Freeing himself from a captivity rooted so deeply within him, she doubts she’ll ever fully grasp the horrific extent of it.

She shoves him again and his eyelids flicker weakly. It’s not lost on her that this is the most unguarded she’s seen him yet. Even when they’d touched hands across light-years in her little hut on Ahch-To, or just moments ago when he’d fallen to his knees and cried into her hands, begging her to stay with him. Nothing compares to this vulnerability. The open ease on his face, the furrow absent from his brow, the quiet, gentle breaths escaping his parted lips. _I kissed those lips..._ , she thinks, feeling a pang of sorrow at having to wake him. But they don’t have time to be vulnerable, not in a place like this.

With another shove, Ben finally comes to. He blinks rapidly, then scrunches his eyes closed as he lets out a deep breath and tweaks his nose in an attempt to wake up. _How human._ Rey tucks the inconsequential detail away for later inspection. When he finally looks at her, his expression is that of someone lost. Not in a personal or moral sense, — though that could be debated — rather like a child separated from their family on a crowded street. She knows he hasn’t the foggiest idea about what to do. How they’ll manage to make it off this ship without drawing suspicion. Rey doesn’t really know what to do either, but she finds that she always thinks better on her feet. 

She stands, grasping Ben’s hand — wishing he wouldn’t wear those damned gloves — and raising him up with her. “We’ll figure it out on the way,” she says in response to the still troubled look on his face, while not knowing herself which ‘way’ they’re going except to the elevator.

They cross the room with hastened steps but stop at the red-haired man’s body. A wound from his own blaster bolt sizzles on his right shoulder as his chest rises and falls faintly. _So I didn’t kill him._ He must have passed out from the pain, or possibly from the impact of the crash like Ben had. She decides she’s glad he’s not dead. No, he wouldn’t have been the first person she’s killed, — having just downed a room full of Snoke’s guards — but that doesn’t mean she particularly enjoys the activity. So she’s glad he’s alive, even if he’s proved to be her enemy.

After a second or two, Ben squeezes her hand and tugs her gently towards the turbolift. She looks up at him and finds his eyes filled with disgust. Not to the same degree as when his gaze would settle upon Snoke, or when Luke Skywalker is mentioned. But disgust just the same. 

“You want him dead?” she asks carefully.

He doesn’t reply until they’re in the elevator and he’s punched in the floor number for the nearest docking bay, “Yes.” She wants to ask why he didn’t just finish him off then and there, but Ben says the word with finality, asking her to drop the subject with nothing but his tone of voice.

“I’m assuming you have a ship we can escape on?” she tries instead. He nods. “Where are we going to go once we're on board said ship?” she asks, questioning further.

His lips twitch as something close to amusement flashes across his face. “Your guess is as good as mine. Wasn’t this whole operation your idea?” 

Rey hums. If only ‘this whole operation’ had gone the way she’d hoped it would. She would have had a plan then. “It was very last minute,” she mumbles.

Ben huffs and she can’t tell if it’s from laughter or annoyance. Probably both.

They stand in silence for a short while, nearing their destination at an alarming speed for a turbolift, she thinks, when a thought occurs to Rey: “We should probably pretend that I’m still your prisoner.” Ben’s shoulders stiffen and he looks at her gravely, but nods. “Just in case someone rec—“ She tries to continue but her mouth snaps shut as the elevator doors open, revealing the frenzied disorder of the hangar bay before them.

Alarms, bright and shrill, blare throughout the room as strong traces of smoke and burning metal corrupt the sterile scent of recycled air. TIE Fighters zip out of the bay spastically, while shuttles accommodate far more passengers than their capacity allows as they, too, abandon ship. Troopers sprint to and fro, either attempting to mitigate the chaos at hand or shamelessly adding to it as they scrounge about, desperate for the fastest way off the _Supremacy_. Officers in their stark and staunch, black and navy, First Order uniforms do much of the same.

Rey knew something big had happened, but she never considered something this catastrophic.

“Move!” Ben grunts, releasing her hand to grasp her upper arm, narrowly missing her wound from the Praetorian Guard’s vibro-blade. He shoves her out of the elevator roughly, guiding her towards a black shuttle with two tall, looming wings that no one has attempted to board yet. For a moment, she wonders why he’s being so harsh, then remembers her request in the elevator before the mere sight of the hangar bay winded her. She plays along promptly, feigning resistance, which only makes him tighten his grip as he pushes them closer to the ship with a stomping, urgent pace. A few officers cast quizzical looks their way, but none interfere. 

Once onboard, Ben closes the ramp and lets out a sharp breath through his nose. “You’re very good at that,” Rey offers, complimenting the believability of his performance.

“Years of practice...” he mutters at the floor, making his way up to the cockpit.

That stills Rey. She can’t forget who he is, or all that he’s done to the galaxy in the name of ‘order’. But she can try to forgive, offer him a chance she knows she would want in his position. His coming with her is encouragement enough for her to place a sliver of faith in him, even if he's not returning to the Resistance with her. And he’s been so understanding towards her, so kind in his own stoic way. And she _won’t_ forget her vision on Ahch-To. Her glance into his future had been so clear. So _perfect_. No. She won’t give up on him just yet, not after he’s given her so much to be hopeful for. 

Rey follows him into the cockpit and settles herself in the co-pilot’s seat, watching his fingers dance over the controls. He pauses, flitting his eyes over to her swiftly, and apprehension takes hold of his features. His mouth opens, then closes just as quickly, before they’re lifting off the ground, heading for the bay doors.

_That was easier than expected,_ she thinks, her pride in herself — and in Ben — swelling. But her silent celebration is short-lived as Ben banks the ship around and opens fire on the docking bay with a feral look in his eyes. The rest of his face a mask, unfazed by the immense destruction unraveling before him, _because_ of him.

“BEN!” Her cry does nothing to sedate him. If anything his deathly glare worsens. His hands tighten on the ship's controls, the leather of his gloves squeaking from the pressure. Shock takes over all her senses. _He’s not going to stop..._

His voice is surprisingly placid when he responds, “Are you going to help?”

“But—“ she sputters, unable to find coherent words while his cannon fire only grows more persistent.

“This is killing the past, Rey.” His jaw squirms and she can see his mind turning, trying to find the right words to assure himself that he won’t upset her any more than he already has. But all he manages is an almost silent, “At least part of it.”

Before she decides whether to scold or aid in his vengeful crusade, he’s turning the shuttle back towards the hangar’s exit, speeding towards the stars just outside. “You could have warned me you were planning on blowing everything up!”

He’s still for a moment until a loathsome smirk spreads across his lips. “It was very last minute.” 

Rey can feel her jaw hanging. _Did he just...IS HE MOCKING ME?_

The first bubbles of laughter begin rising from his chest when something out of the viewport catches his eye, silencing him. He turns the ship so the whole of the _Supremacy_ is within their view.

_Oh..._

If the sight of every First Order shuttle, TIE, and escape pod jettisoning in a horde from the Mega-class Dreadnought isn't enough to take Rey’s breath away, the severed right wing of the _Supremacy_ , drifting off into the vacuum of space does the trick.

“What happened?” she wonders aloud. Ben only shakes his head, just as confused as she. They stay like that for a while, dumbfounded and completely in the dark as to what could have caused such damage to the colossal ship. Then something prickles at the base of her neck, and a diluted sense of sick justice washes over her suddenly. She looks to Ben, witnessing his chin rise ever so slightly in triumph, or perhaps defiance. 

Not knowing quite how or why it happens, a stream of his thoughts filter through her mind. Most are riddled with confusion and pride, but the one pertaining to how many escapees he could gun down before they start firing back catches her attention. “Ben!”

“What?” He looks genuinely startled.

“You can’t fire at them when they’re practically defenseless!”

Without missing a beat, he retorts calmly, “You would have done it if you were alone,” seemingly undaunted by her catching drift of his thoughts.

“Yes, but I’m not a part of the First Order’s regime!”

“Neither am I!” The weight of his words drops between them, startling him more than Rey. With wide eyes, he tacks a hushed, “Anymore...” on the end of his statement and shifts his attention back to the shuttle’s controls. He turns the ship away from the wreckage and starts fiddling with the navigation system. 

“What makes you think the First Order’s not going to follow your little Resistance onto that planet and finish them off?” Ben says finally, pointing out the viewport towards the retreating Resistance transports she’d only just noticed.

She ponders that for a moment. If Ben had just agreed to join the Rebels with her, they could be on the _Falcon_ right now, with Chewie. Not having to deal with—

_The Falcon...CHEWIE!!!_

Throwing a hand over her mouth, she lets out a yelp, “CHEWIE!”

“Chewie?” An uncomfortable look passes over Ben at the mention of the name.

“Does this thing have a comm system?” she asks in a frenzy.

“Uh...” He throws a perplexed glance her way. “Yes. Yeah, here,” he says, turning it on for her.

She enters the _Falcon’s_ comm code from memory in two seconds flat and waits. And waits. And waits. Until the familiar sound of her hairy companion’s Shyriiwook blares through the shuttle’s comm unit. 

Rey watches the whole of Ben’s body go rigid out of the corner of her eye. He stays that way for the entirety of her conversation with the Wookie.

She tells Chewie that the Resistance has fled to a small planet the shuttle’s navicomputer identifies as Crait. She explains that he needs to retrieve the Rebels before the First Order — still struggling to organize itself after it’s losses — regroups and pursues them. Never once does she mention Ben, for his sake. Chewie’s sharp anyway, he doesn’t need all the details to piece together something close to what happened. With a final, reassuring growl, he signs off the _Falcon’s_ comm unit, leaving Rey and Ben in silence.

At first, she doesn’t mind it: the quiet. But before long, that buzzing feeling at the nape of her neck returns and a slew of Ben’s emotions surge through her. Trepidation. Victory. Nervousness. Contentment. Confusion. Assuredness. 

“Are you all right?” Rey prods gently after soaking him in through the bond for a moment.

“Mhm,” is all he gives her before changing the subject. “Have you decided where we’re going?”

Rey finds herself blushing at the question. Not because it’s just the two of them, alone, flying away to some far off place together, but because she doesn’t know much of anything about the galaxy outside of Jakku. She doesn’t even know where they are right now. Thankfully, Ben starts perusing through the nearby systems on the navicomputer before she can embarrass herself by exposing her lack of knowledge.

“We’ll want to get rid of this thing—“ he kicks the command console absently, indicating the ship as a whole, “as soon as possible. So we need someplace that has a—“ he pauses again, though this time to look more closely at the navigation system. “Naboo’s close by, so is Sullust. I don’t know what kind of underground market either of them has, but that’s where we’ll find the best prices on ships after we sell this one.”

The way he’s speaking reminds Rey fleetingly of Han, and she smiles. It’s not wholly happy, given the circumstances, but it’s her body’s first reaction. “What?” he says, catching her staring at him.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I’ve never been to either of them, so whichever you choose is fine.”

Ben's eyes soften at the underlying meaning of her words: she’s never been anywhere, not really.

“Well, Sullust is closer. But, Naboo would put some distance between us and the First Order. We have enough fuel to get there—” He trails off a bit at the end, watching her expectantly.

“Then I guess we’re going to Naboo.” She smiles at him.

He smiles back.

————

“Why wasn’t anybody trying to board this shuttle in the hangar bay?” Rey asks. They’ve been in hyperspace for about an hour and restlessness had begun to take her over long ago. So rather than pace around the passenger compartment, she opted to talk, ask questions, do anything really to keep herself occupied.

“It’s my ship exclusively,” he answers flatly, clearly disinterested in the conversation but humoring her anyway. “It can’t take off without my activation codes.” 

“You don’t have a pilot or someone who operates it for you?” 

“No, I do. But he still needs the codes to power the ship on.”

“He doesn’t know them?” _That seems odd._

“No.”

“What’s his name?”

Ben sighs dramatically. “You’re rather full of questions, aren’t you?”

Rey doesn’t know how to respond to that. She wasn’t trying to be bothersome, she was just curious. Turning away from him slightly in her seat, she gazes out at the stars streaking past in a vortex of blue. _Don’t be so giddy, laser brain. He’s not Finn..._

_Finn..._

The thought of her friend sobers her. She hadn’t stayed on D’Qar with the Resistance long enough to get to know anyone, except Leia perhaps. But she knew Finn. When and if he wakes up, — _please not if_ — she won’t be there to greet him. Chewie will be there of course, and BB-8, but who else. Who knows him? Will he still want to leave the Resistance? Work cheap jobs in the Outer Rim in exchange for anonymity? She hopes not. She hopes he’ll wake up and fight alongside the Rebels. She hopes they’ll meet again someday, in a more peaceful galaxy. 

“Jober,” Ben says, breaking her out of her reverie.

“What?”

“My pilot. His name is Jober.”

“Oh.” Rey hadn’t expected him to respond, especially after he plainly expressed his distaste for her questions.

His shoulders twitch with unease and Rey can tell that he’s working up the courage to say something.

“I’m sorry, it’s just—“ he sighs awkwardly, but continues, “I’m not very good at talking. Conversing.” He runs a hand over his face. “I wasn’t good at it before, and I only got worse after.” The way he says ‘before’ and ‘after’, heavy with emphasis and disdain, leaves no room for Rey to wonder what he means: Luke, Snoke, the Dark Side. “It’s going to take me a while to figure it out again. I apologize in advance.”

“That’s all right,” she smiles softly and leans towards him, making sure he’s paying attention, “I know how to be patient.”

Her words set something off in his eyes and she can see small, nearly imperceptible tears forming in them. Slowly, as if not to frighten her away, Ben rises out of the pilot’s seat and comes to kneel by the arm of her chair. He raises his right hand to cup her cheek, but she catches his wrist lightly. “I don’t like these,” she whispers, taking off his glove finger by finger then placing his bare hand on her face. 

_There._

Warmth and ease and connection. That’s all she wants. 

Ben brushes his fingers over her lips with wonder in his eyes. _He feels it too..._ Rey reaches down to remove his other glove and holds his hands between hers. Such little contact shouldn’t feel so good, but it does. It does and it’s intoxicating. She tilts her head down, capturing his lips, and somehow that’s even better. It’s belonging. It’s safety. It’s home.

His kisses are delicate and entirely opposite from most everything she knows about him. Yet, she’s not surprised. As if somewhere in her subconscious she knows this is exactly where he belongs: kissing her slow and easy until her mouth goes numb from the gentle rush of it all.

_How can lips be this soft?_

“Rey...” he murmurs against her mouth, out of breath. She likes the sound of that more than she cares to admit.

“Yes?” she teases.

He brushes his cheek against hers, “I like touching you,” he says. His voice is thick and unaware of just how forward his words sound. But suddenly, through the bond, she feels him flush and she chuckles at that. “I— I mean...I didn’t—“

“I know what you mean,” she cuts him off, bringing her lips to his again to reassure him. “I know.” 

He chuckles then, too, and kisses her like each second passing might be his last chance to do so.

The feeling is nearly indescribable. But she thinks, if a glistening, fiery drop of a star took up residence in the cavity of her chest, it would feel like this.


	3. The Morality of Theft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Rey have a much more difficult time acquiring a ship on Naboo than expected.

He could kiss her for hours, truly. Just breathing in the same air as her would be enough to comfort him. 

But they have to take the shuttle out of Hyperspace eventually— the glowing, green orb of Naboo snagging Rey’s attention away as he returns to his seat. She helps him maneuver through the planet’s atmosphere with the ease of someone who’d spent their whole life behind the controls of this very ship. _Quick study..._ he observes with a smirk.

Ben has only been to Naboo once when he was a young boy with his mother, who’d insisted he join her on one of her political errands. Leia claimed the trip would be ‘fun and educational’, and it was, in retrospect. The Queen at the time had been gracious towards Ben and his insatiable curiosity, allowing him to explore the Royal Palace, with its copious stairways and vaulted ceilings, at his leisure. But all he had really wanted was to go outside, to investigate the capital city of Theed, to roll down every lush, green hill the planet had to offer. 

Of course, he never got the chance. Leia had wanted him close by for the trip so her fellow politicians didn’t think her a neglectful mother. _Always concerned with image._

“Is this place even real?” Rey says reverently, interrupting his thoughts as they make their way towards Theed Spaceport. She takes in the city, standing proud amongst the greenery of the planet, with childlike wonder in her eyes. Ben would give anything to keep that look on her face.

The spaceport is built into a cliff face below the capital, with entrances to the city extending through underground passageways. Ben doesn’t know much about the small world, but he does know it’s overrun with tunnels, some of which have a reputation for seediness. The perfect place to harbor shady, bootleg businesses.

Naboo declared itself a neutral system — which holds little weight in the grand scheme of things — after the decimation of Hosnian Prime, so landing an Upsilon-class, First Order shuttle might draw some much-unwanted attention if they’re not careful. All the more reason for he and Rey to get it off their hands as swiftly as possible.

“We should probably dock over there—“, Rey points to the far end of the spaceport, where no vessels have yet to land, “so less people get a look at us. Just to be careful.”

_My thoughts exactly..._

They touch down on the last docking pad to the right and Ben shuts the engines off immediately, already heading towards the back of the shuttle to lower the ramp.

“You might want to lose the garb,” Rey suggests from behind him, “at least some of it, I mean.” When he looks at her, her cheeks are flushed but her visage is serious. Only the slightest traces of amusement dance across her features.

“What?”

“Your outfit.” She gestures to his body as a whole. “Don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious?” _Oh..._ “And we’re going to have to hide the lightsabers too,” she continues.

He’d almost forgotten about those. Almost.

Ben removes his saber and his grandfather’s from his belt and hands them to Rey without hesitation. And to think, just a few days ago they’d battled one another damn near mercilessly with those sabers. Now he’s running away with her, this brilliant, strange, powerful girl that he knows nothing and everything about. The thought makes his palms sweat. 

Bringing his hands to the clasp of his belt, unfastening it with mechanical ease, Ben finds his ears growing hot. Rey’s staring at him. _Don’t think about it that way...It’s precautionary; she knows that, YOU know that..._

He hands her his belt when finished, then moves to his tunic. She takes a particular interest in that for whatever reason, her eyes roaming over his chest, causing his fingers to fumble at the mundane task. It takes him far longer to remove the garment than he cares to admit. 

“Huh,” she says, breaking the silence. He knows if he speaks his voice will shake, so he only hums in question. “You look different. Still dark and brooding as usual, but different.”

Ben can’t imagine what she means by that, his undershirt is still black like the rest of his clothes. He shouldn’t look any different at all. Perhaps less tense, but what good does that do in changing one’s appearance, especially in their position. They’ll have to move quickly here; Hux, — who no doubt ascended Snoke’s Throne after their escape — in all likelihood, has already named him a fugitive of the Order or at least placed a bounty on his head. He doubts anyone will recognize him yet, but once he starts advertising a First Order shuttle for sale, paired with his ‘suspicious garb’, connecting the dots won’t be a difficult task.

“I could sell the ship,” Rey blurts out, obviously sifting through his thoughts, “I don’t look suspicious.” She grins at him tauntingly.

“You don’t think Hux has it out for you, too?” Ben prods, dreading the idea, but changes the subject. “How do you keep doing that? I can’t even feel you in there,” he says, motioning to his forehead.

“I don’t really know.” She squints her eyes at him as if trying to locate some invisible string connecting their minds. “I think you might be letting me in without knowing it.”

_Doubtful._

“Why am I not getting anything from you?” 

Rey only shrugs. “Maybe I’m _not_ letting you in without knowing it.” She takes his discarded tunic from him and begins folding it around the sabers.

“That seems rather one-sided, don’t you think?” He smirks at her, transfixed by the deftness of her fingers clasping his belt around the bundle of fabric, holding it in place and hugging it to her form.

“Who am I to know the will of the Force?” she claims casually, moving around him to lower the ramp.

_The Force..._

What had Snoke said? That he’d bridged their minds? But Snoke is dead. Shouldn’t their minds be, well, un-bridged?

“Rey?” he calls out as she heads down to the docking platform.

“Hmm?” She looks up at him bemusedly, probably wondering why he’s still standing at the top of the ramp.

“Do you believe what Snoke said, about our minds?” 

The question doesn’t seem to faze her at all. Instead, she smiles sadly and says, “Ben, he lied to you for almost your whole life.” Her face hardens then, overcome with resoluteness and nerve. “Why would I believe a single word he said?”

————

They’ve been walking the underground workings of the city for nearly two hours now — much too long for Ben’s liking — in search of ships for sale. All they’ve yet to come across are sorry excuses for bars, run-down marketplaces, and grimy vendors selling a variety of undoubtedly illegal items. 

They had agreed that, while having Rey haggle through the buying and selling of a ship alone might prove less conspicuous, staying together and keeping to themselves was the safest way go about meandering Naboo’s unfamiliar tunnels. Not that either one of them couldn’t defend themselves should the need arise, but experience suggested they worked better as a pair.

Though, a part of Ben just wanted to be near her. Back at the shuttle, her words about Snoke had surprised him, deepened his resolve, affirmed his loyalties to her and their bond.

But had she really meant what she’d said? He had never known Rey to be untrue to her words, even the cruel ones. Monster. Snake. Liar.

_Stop..._

_She doesn’t see you that way anymore._

“It seems strange that such a beautiful planet can be so ugly at the same time,” Rey says suddenly as they walk past some particularly detestable merchandise, the vendor promising to cut them the deal of their lives, that they’ll never find prices like these anywhere else in the galaxy.

“Most worlds are like this,” Ben says lamentably, hating that this place has tainted her view of the planet, “if you look close enough. People too.”

She says nothing to that and he’s glad. He doesn’t even know why he said it himself.

Then something prickles at the back of his neck. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, but it’s unfamiliar and that makes him nervous. He’s about to ask Rey if she feels it too, thinking someone might be watching them when a thought passes through his mind. A thought that most definitely does not belong to him. _“And maybe some places, some people, are just the opposite...”_

Ben stops where he stands. Gobsmacked and wide-eyed, he looks down at Rey who smiles effortlessly up at him as though she hadn’t just spoken _inside his head_. She takes his hand briefly, squeezes it, then turns around, walking back to a fruit stand they’d passed a few moments ago.

He’s dumbfounded. So much so that he doesn’t follow her. He simply stares at the back of her head as she talks with the old woman running the counter, trying to picture a thread that ties their minds together. He wants to walk that thread, to merge their thoughts, to say something back to her in secret. But all he finds is a wall, prohibiting him from venturing anywhere past her most base feelings.

Frustrated — yet thoroughly intrigued — he returns to her side, picking up on the tail end of her conversation with the fruit seller. Something about aching feet. _Odd..._

“I just asked this nice woman if she knew anywhere we could buy and sell a ship.” Rey smiles at the vendor. “She says there’s a man about two blocks from here who sells speeders, and that he might be able to help us.”

“Oh,” is all Ben can say because the old woman is looking at him now. A flicker of recognition alighting in her eyes, but she says nothing as she continues to inspect his face, her gaze shifting to Rey carefully. He doesn’t like that.

Desperate to keep moving, he grasps Rey’s hand — perhaps a bit too roughly — and tugs them further down the corridor, away from the woman and anyone else who might have gotten a good look at them. He knew this would happen, he expected nothing less of Hux to be efficient in his efforts to track them down. 

“Are you all right?” she asks aloud after a while, concern lining the edge of her voice.

“I don’t think we should stay here. People are going to start recognizing us.” He doesn’t stop moving, propelling them forward, not even looking for the speeder shop the old woman had mentioned. 

But Rey pulls her hand free and stops. “Hold on,” she says, raising her palms up as if to placate him, “I can take care of that should an issue arise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry,” she chuckles, mildly exasperated with him. “I can take care of it.”

Ben can’t say why that assures him, but it does. Perhaps it has something to do with their bond and his overwhelming urge to trust her. To follow the bright, blaring instinct that implores him to have faith in her. He drops his head in resignation and sighs, holding his hand out for Rey to take again should she feel so inclined. When their fingers interlock again, a stream of composure flows through her and into him, slowing the racing of his mind.

Where has this girl been all his life? 

“Once we find somewhere to sell the shuttle we’re as good as gone,” she offers confidently despite his skepticism. “Trust me, I worked the whole thing out while we were walking around, not asking anyone for directions.”

“Asking for directions involves talking to someone, which makes it quite a bit easier for that someone to get a good, long look at us.” 

“I know, I know...” Her steps hasten as her eyes lock onto something up ahead. “But you wanted to get out of here quickly.”

Before he can retort that he meant ‘quickly and carefully’, Rey’s pulling them down a wide corridor with a rusting sign that reads “Bikes and Speeders This Way”. Ben runs a hand through his hair nervously. _Please don’t end badly, please don’t end badly, please don’t end badly..._

“Would you calm down?” she exclaims, reading his thoughts for the— _How many times has it been today?_ “We can do this.” Her tone is strong and certain, but he can hear the softest break of nervousness there. No, he can feel her nervousness mixing with her resolve. Thinking he might have found an opening to her mind, he delves deeper into her emotions, finding her bubbling with exhilaration oddly enough.

_Is she having fun right now?_ he thinks, baffled.

_“Possibly,”_ she responds silently.

_Why?_

_“I’ve always wanted a ship. I’d given up hope on ever getting one until today.”_

Ben smiles shyly at that.

When they reach the end of the hallway, they find it opens out onto a sedge-like hillside. Tattered, fabric canopies stand pitched above a myriad of bikes and speeders, all in varying degrees of disrepair. Ben can just make out a pair of legs fidgeting beneath a T-85 speeder bike down the first aisle of vehicles, but his attention is seized by the landscape sprawling out before him.

He can’t put his finger on what exactly captivates him the most. The almost unnaturally green grass weaving back and forth in the breeze. The lush islands reaching forever towards the horizon line. Or perhaps the deep blue rivers and lakes the planet is known for, reflecting sunbeams, creating the illusion of stars trapped in a beautiful, watery prison. Ben only pulls his eyes away from the view to see Rey’s reaction; it’s much the same.

Without removing her gaze from the scenery, she whispers, “Go,” then, as if recognizing a childhood desire within him, softly says, _“I’ll handle this...”_ in his mind. So he walks past the tent of merchandise slowly, letting the wind blow his hair any which way it pleases, and sits in the tall grass, soaking in the sun for the first time in years.

————

Ben doesn’t remember falling asleep, but upon waking it doesn’t strike him as peculiar that he would. The air is warm, yet not stifling. The scent of the grass and the dirt and the water is soothing to a part of his memory he can’t quite recall. The sun is like a weightless blanket molding to his form, thawing him gently. And the last time he slept properly was far too long ago.

“You need to wash your hair,” Rey says behind him with something kindred to affection in her voice. She sits down next to him, picking lazily at a loose thread on her pant leg. “But so do I, so who am I to talk.” He can picture her smiling easily, even with her back turned towards him.

“You sound to be in a good mood.” He lets out a deep breath, sitting up so he can look at her. “Does that mean you found a ship?”

“Not exactly.” She smirks for some reason beyond him. “But the shop owner is interested in the shuttle, as long as he gets to see it, make sure it’s worth the price I told him. He told me about a shipyard up in the main city with decent prices, as well.”

“The shop owner’s not concerned with the possible repercussions of purchasing a First Order affiliated vessel?” Ben says, inclining his head towards the plethora of vehicles.

“He didn’t seem to be.” Rey squints out at the Nabooian landscape, the mid-afternoon sun bringing out the freckles on her nose. “You know, this guy actually has some Imperial Era Combat Speeders he’s working on.”

“Well, that explains why he’s out here. And probably why he's interested in military-grade, First Order flight craft.”

“Hmm.” She takes in a breath through her nose, appreciating the freshness of the air, when she remembers, “Oh! And he, the shop owner, — Lyqu is his name — said he could take us back to the shuttle if we’d like.”

Ben lets that sink in.

Based on the fruit stand woman’s reaction to him and Rey, subtle as it was, he is almost certain Hux has already sent word to the galaxy of their ‘crimes’. Though Rey wasn’t on the _Supremacy_ long enough for a usable Holo to be taken of her, the material pertaining to Ben could be limitless. He’ll be the one people recognize. And Rey will be 'the dark-haired, female accomplice'.

_No._

If they spend too much time with this Lyqu, they’ll be turned in for sure.

“Rey, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Ben,” she looks at him pleadingly, “I’m tired and my feet hurt.” _So that’s what she was talking to the fruit vendor about…_ “I know you just took a nap and you probably feel wonderful, but I would like to sit down for a bit.” Smoothly, she tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, letting her fingers idle on his neck. “Please.”

He nods reluctantly.

Unintentionally, they stand in unison and make their way up the small hill to the speeder shop. Rey jogs ahead of him, presumably to inform Lyqu they’ll take him up on his offer. When Ben stoops under the vendor’s canopies he watches the owner head towards him, his hand already outstretched, prepared to greet Ben in kind.

The man is human, with olive-tanned skin and a grin that takes up most of his wrinkled, yet youthful face. A long white braid reaches down to the middle of his back, accompanied by a well-groomed beard to match. “Lyqu Dekle,” the older man says, his voice is low and booming, but friendly. “Pleased to meet ya!”

Ben shakes his hand but doesn’t offer his name; he only smiles briefly before turning back to Rey, hoping that Lyqu doesn’t ruin their chances of getting off this planet anonymously.

_“Don’t worry,”_ Rey says through the bond, _“I didn’t give him my real name.”_

Ben is beyond appreciative of that. 

Lyqu leads the two of them to the most well-maintained speeder in the tent — a converted Imperial Patrol Landspeeder from the looks of it — and starts the engines. The ride back to the spaceport is as uneventful as it is awkward, at least on Ben’s part. Lyqu drives them along the base of the cliffs, pointing out landmarks and fauna when he sees them, trying to make genial conversation. Ben nods and smiles when appropriate but says nothing, leaving that up to Rey, who is only a tad less stiff than he despite her pleasant disposition. When they finally arrive, Ben removes himself from the vehicle as quickly as possible, anxious to find a secluded area where he can wait for Rey to finish whatever credit conversation she and Lyqu were having. 

Ben makes his way across the platform to the entrance of Naboo's tunnel systems, props himself against the doorway and watches Rey haggle with the old speeder seller. He tries reaching out to her mind again, maybe catch a few details of their interaction, but he’s only met with her emotions. She’s still excited at the prospect of buying a ship it seems, yet she’s frustrated. More than likely with how long it’s taking. Or perhaps she’s frustrated with him. He can be a very frustrating individual. Ben decides it’s both.

After a few more minutes of haggling, Rey walks over to him with a look of triumph on her face and a bag of credit chips in her hand. “I told him back at his tent that we’d only accept hard credits.”

“Good.” He nods affirmingly. They don’t need anyone tracking them through payments in his account, that is if Hux hasn’t already frozen it.

“He said he could take us up to the shipyard in the city, too.” Her gaze is imploring against his resistant one. “He hasn’t recognized you and he’s been so kind, Ben, please.”

“We can take the elevators up to the city, if you get directions from him, I'm sure the walk won’t be that long,” he offers as amicably as he can.

Rey’s entire body sags, her words coming out harsher than recently normal, “Ben, I haven’t slept in over a day, I can’t remember the last time I ate something, and I’ve been walking since we got off that ship.” She points behind her to the shuttle. “I’m tired.”

Guilt eats away at Ben’s stomach. He’s so used to going days, perhaps weeks without a full night’s sleep. He hadn’t even noticed how tired he was until he fell asleep in the grass just outside of Lyqu’s shop. But Rey hadn’t taken a break. Instead, she’d bartered a ship away. Of course, she’s tired.

“Okay,” he concedes, his voice remorseful. “Okay, we’ll ride with him again.”

Rey beams softly at him. _“Thank you,”_ her words pass through his mind soothingly.

They cross the landing platform, pile back into Lyqu’s speeder, thanking him for his generosity, and make their way up to the capital city of Theed. The stone streets aren’t too crowded, — the time of day lending itself to everyone still being at work — but Ben keeps his head down anyway. Their drive to the shipyard isn’t a long one and Lyqu, thankfully, doesn’t attempt talking to him again. But no ships await them once they reach their destination, not even an empty lot, only a wide, glass storefront. Ben turns to Lyqu with suspicion, toeing the line of all out rage. _Is he turning us in?_

“The owner keeps all his vessels below ground,” Lyqu explains, clearly taking note of Ben’s crazed glare, “for storage reasons.”

The answer proves good enough for Rey because she thanks the older man again and hops out of his speeder eagerly, heading for the doors of the ‘shipyard’. Ben casts one more look at Lyqu and his warm, wrinkled face, nods curtly, then follows Rey.

Inside the store, they find a large Holopad to the left of the entrance asking what model of ship they’re in the market for. “Any preferences?” Rey asks, scrolling through the options displayed on the screen.

“No, I don’t care.” He does care, but he’s anxious here in the open city and he never makes good decisions when he’s anxious. “You decide. As long as it has a ‘fresher, I’ll be fine.”

Ben lets Rey work through the choices of ships while he examines the store. The room they’re in is small, and office-like, with basic stone and chromium decorations. A few chairs line the same wall as the entrance and what looks to be an elevator system sits opposite of it. It’s a plain space and no one's in it except him and Rey, so he allows himself to relax if only just.

“All right,” Rey mutters to herself, “Select ship: yes. And go!” She looks to the elevator doors with enthusiasm as they open automatically.

Apprehensively, Ben enters the turbolift with her and holds his breath the second the doors close. Her hand reaches out to his, grabbing his attention. “I don’t know how long we’re going to keep this ship, but I picked something larger in case we end up staying in it a while,” she says almost sheepishly.

“What'd you pick?”

“It’s a light freighter, 720-class. It was the only one on the list with a working ‘fresher; they’re all used ships here it looks like. It has a couple of sleeping quarters, that way we won’t get cramped.” _Why would we get cramped?_ “It’s missing one of its escape pods but that’s not too horrible of--”

“It sounds great.” The words tumble out of his mouth, not quite as calm as he would like. Before he can apologize, the elevator doors open again and a large, natural stone hangar, filled end to end with freighters, greets them. 

The far end of the room opens to the outside, allowing ships to come and go easily after being bought or while on a test run. Mechanics, sales workers, and customers alike bustle about the room examining freighters of all different shapes and sizes. Ben realizes immediately how dangerous this idea is. He can’t be in this overcrowded room full of ever-watchful eyes without putting Rey at risk. But he also can’t leave now without looking suspicious. _What are we going to do?_ he thinks frantically to himself, completely unaware of Rey’s presence in his thoughts.

_“We’re going to go get our ship, and we’re going to fly out of here. Fast.”_

When he looks at her, he sees his same fears mirrored on her face. That comforts him slightly.

For a few precious moments, he feels all right walking through the hordes of civilians. Until people start staring at him. He tries to tell himself that it’s just because he has an odd face, but he knows it’s because he has a familiar face. A face they’ve all seen with the word ‘criminal’ or ‘menace’ or ‘fugitive’ attached to it. 

_This is not going to end well..._

Rey stops abruptly in front of a curiously shaped freighter, holding both the bag of credits from Lyqu and the bundle of Ben's clothes concealing their lightsabers tightly to her chest, a skittish look fills her eyes. A sales attendant is making his way towards them, datapad in hand, hopefully, ready to check them out speedily. The young man barely spares them a glance as he drones on about acceptable payment types — hard credits not being one of them — and warranties and recommended insurance policies. Only when he notices Rey’s packet of credit chips does he look up. Whatever he had planned to say evaporates from his lips as he locks eyes with Ben. 

_He knows._

Ben stills, preparing himself for whatever may come next, when Rey extends her hand, waving it over the salesman’s eyes. “We've already transferred our payment for the ship. All you have to do is sign off on it.”

“You’ve already transferred your payment for the ship. All I have to do is sign off on it,” the man echoes back tonelessly.

_Did...Did she just...Had she planned to do that all along?_

“Come on,” Rey whispers at him, tugging on his shirt sleeve.

She darts up the boarding ramp of the freighter and he follows suit, still baffled by what he’d just witnessed. Once the ramp closes, he turns to ask what, exactly, she thinks she’s doing, but she’s already in the cockpit, fiddling with the controls at the pilot station. His desire to get out of this city and off this planet overwhelms his desire to confront her, so he plants himself in the co-pilot’s chair and helps her power the ship on. They don’t speak until the ship’s lifted out of the hangar bay. Until they’ve flown out of the view of Theed. Until they cross Naboo’s atmosphere into the starry abyss of space.

“Why did you do that, Rey?” Concern drips from his voice.

“I had to.” Her face is stern. “He was going to turn you in, I felt it.”

“We just stole this ship. Rey, you swindled that man.”

Something in her expression boils. “Don’t— Hrrgh— I understand what I did! And don’t talk to me about the morality of theft! You fired on innocent lives in that hangar bay on the _Supremacy_ and you know it!”

“Anyone willingly working for the First Order is far from innocent,” he says, no longer wanting to have this conversation with her.

“What about the Stormtroopers, huh? They don’t have a choice!”

“Rey—”

She stands from her seat, willing him to be silent. “I— You—”, grunting, she walks towards the corridor, “I’m going to shower, then I’m going to bed. Take us wherever you want.” 

Thinking she’s gone, he moves over into the pilot’s seat and begins checking the fuel levels, sorting out where they could go from here to lay low. 

“Ben?” Her tone is calmer now, but still sharp. “I— I’m just trying to look out for you,” she pauses, “to protect you.” His breath hitches. “I’m sorry if— I’m sorry.”

Ben doesn’t say anything because he has nothing left to say. He doesn’t search through the navicomputer, he doesn’t familiarize himself with the ship’s controls any more than necessary, he doesn’t even look out at the stars. Instead, he stares at his boots. _She wants to protect me…_ The thought both thrills and terrifies him. It thrills him because it means that she might care as deeply for him as he does for her. It terrifies him because it means that they’re attached, and if something happened to her it would be on him. He can barely live with himself now. How could he live with himself then?

He doesn’t know how long he sits there in the cockpit, thinking of all the wretched ways this could go wrong, but he can feel his eyelids growing heavy. Deciding a shower might be best to clear his mind before bed, he makes his way to the ‘fresher. Since he didn’t bring any spare clothes with him, Ben dumps his garments into the laundering outlet in the wall, hoping they’ll be dry by the time he’s done. That concern leaves him readily as he spends much longer showering than needed, thinking, letting the frigid water roll over him. By the time he gets out his hands and feet have wrinkled from the moisture. His clean, dry clothes are no longer warm when he removes them from the laundering outlet and puts them back on. Before turning in, Ben sets a course for Eadu, where they can refuel and decide where to go from there.

He’s heading to the next empty bedroom when the nape of his neck begins to tingle.

_“Ben…”_ Rey calls out through the bond. _“Come here.”_ It’s not a question.

He walks down the short, narrow hallway towards her door; it slides open before he even reaches it. She’s curled up on her side, smaller than he’s ever seen her, clutching her hands to her chest awkwardly. Her eyes dance across his face, searching for some trace of anger or discontentment. Seeming to find none, she lifts the bunk’s thin covers up, inviting him to close the gap between them.

Ben does so without hesitation. Rey scoots over slightly to give more room on the small bed but stays as close to him as she can.

“Thank you,” his voice fills every corner of the modest crew cabin, “for looking out for me.”

“Anytime.”

Her eyes flutter closed then, allowing him to admire the delicate symmetry of her features. He assumes she’s asleep until a cool, crisp sensation swallows him whole. He closes his eyes and a memory that doesn’t belong to him flows through his mind. He sees himself, fast asleep in long, silky grass, a warm sun lighting on his cheeks and hair. He sees himself vulnerable and it doesn’t frighten him. He sees himself the way Rey sees him. And he feels what she felt in that moment: An all-consuming desire to preserve the sensitive, fragile piece of him that he’s shown to none but her. 

When he opens his eyes again they’re wet, and so are Rey’s. She says nothing, only smiles tearfully, and pulls him closer somehow.

Ben has never felt so loved.


	4. Reaching Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey and Ben continue making their way through the galaxy while trying to maintain anonymity. Leia makes a discovery.

Warm, measured breaths tickle Rey’s ear, rousing her from sleep. She almost expects to open her eyes and find herself back in a little hut on Ahch-To, having dreamt that Ben would leave the First Order with her, _for her_. 

_But I didn’t dream it..._

Ben lies next to her, solid and real with an arm draped across her stomach and his legs tangled between her own, snoring quietly in her ear.

Rey turns her head to look at him — infatuated with how reposed he is when asleep, the loveliness of his features at peace — but his nose twitches as she moves and he groans, waking up, much to Rey’s disappointment. He doesn’t open his eyes though, his lips finding their way back to her ear blindly and kissing it. First the shell, then the lobe where his mouth lingers, nipping at the sensitive flesh there. Rey shivers. He doesn’t stop.

“Good morning,” she says, trying to distract herself from the heated sensation blooming in her stomach. 

Ben chuckles against her neck, which does nothing to help her situation. “I wasn't aware there were mornings in hyperspace,” he teases, bringing his lips to her cheek.

“Oh,” Rey exclaims softly, the stubble on Ben’s chin grazing her jaw. “Scratchy,” she mutters timidly. He grins at her, a wicked glint catching in his eye as he ducks his head and rubs his unshaven face up and down the length of her neck. She snorts with laughter, shoving at his chest playfully in a weak attempt to stop him. But he fights back, shifting all of his weight on top of her and pinning her to the mattress. “Kriff,” she grunts underneath him, “you’re heavy.”

“Got you.” He ignores her breathless statement as he leans in to kiss her.

Taking the opportunity while he’s distracted with her lips, Rey pulls her forearms free from between their chests and locks them around his waist. She wraps her legs over the backs of his thighs as well, caging his body against hers. She smiles tauntingly against his mouth. “Now _I’ve_ got _you_.”

Ben pulls back slightly to study her face. It’s then that Rey notices an ease in the way he’s holding himself that hadn’t been there when he’d come to bed. “Good,” he whispers finally, sinking deeper into her embrace, threading his fingers through her hair.

When he kisses her again it’s different. His tongue runs along her bottom lip delectably before pressing into her mouth. Rey didn’t even know that was something you could do. Well, she knew. But she never imagined she would have someone to do it with; the reality of it scarcely crossing her mind. Now it’s the only thing there aside from the mesmeric hum of their bond come alive through the contact. 

_“Me too,”_ Ben's voice fills her thoughts, picking up on something in there.

Rey doesn’t want to pull away but she can’t quite focus enough to project words out from her mind, which is currently occupied thinking of all the ways she would like to _feel_ him. So she releases his mouth and asks aloud, “‘You too’, what?”

He sighs and licks his beautifully swollen, red lips, clearly frustrated that she would ever dare stop kissing him. “I never thought I would have someone, too.” His tone is anxious, ready to pick up where they left off, but Rey can’t ignore the meaning tied to those words.

She forgets sometimes that Ben’s life was heading towards the same isolated end that hers was, only taking a different, darker path to get there. He knows all too well the bleak, empty, devouring feeling of loneliness that she knows. And he seems just as surprised as her to not be burdened by it so much anymore. Surprised to have found a sense of belonging separate from everything either of them has known. It makes his nearness to her all the more exhilarating, realizing how desperately they’ve both longed for something like this.

Rey clutches at the fabric of his shirt with abandon, pulling him closer just so she can hold him, memorizing the way he feels tucked against her, safe in her arms. _This is where he belongs..._ This. Them. It comes from the Force. She wouldn’t feel so sure about it — like when a voice within would lead her to a particularly prosperous find while scavenging, or helped to heighten her senses at the prospect of danger — if it wasn’t so.

Ben tightens his arms around her, more than likely following her train of thought, and buries his face in the crook of her neck, kissing her there sweetly. They stay that way for who knows how long, understanding passing between them as they cling to one another, receiving every emotion the other feels as though it were their own.

“Rey?” Ben mumbles into her hair. “Where are we going to hide if everywhere I go someone recognizes me?”

He must not have listened because Rey thought she’d explained what they should do back at the spaceport on Naboo: Let her manage whatever ‘public affairs’ need managing. He can stay behind on their ship, ready to take off at a moment's notice should something disastrous occur.

“The First Order doesn’t have much control in the Outer Rim, right?” Rey prods instead.

“Right.”

“Then we should go there,” she states with only a little uncertainty.

Ben hums against her skin, pressing his lips to her pulse point before lifting his head up to look at her. “I’m never getting off this ship, am I?” he asks, clearly regarding her thoughts on how they should go about keeping their anonymity. A lazy smirk crosses his face.

“Not for a while, no,” she quips, returning his smirk.

“Hmm...” He purses his lips and lets out a sharp breath through his nose, “There are worse things,” he kisses her jaw, “I suppose.” Rey can feel his mouth part into a sly smile as he works kisses down her neck, sucking lightly as he goes.

Rey’s hands fly into his hair, unsure about what she should be doing but eager nonetheless. When her nails brush over his scalp he sighs so dramatically she almost thinks he’s joking. But Ben’s lips travel over her skin with heated determination, burning into the hollow of her throat, her collarbones, pushing past the neck of her undershirt to kiss the tops of her breasts. Every single nerve in her body is aflame. So much so that she doesn’t even notice the way her hips cant upwards to meet his. 

But Ben does.

He lifts himself off of her, an amalgamation of surprise and lust churning behind his gaze, and clasps his hands firmly around her upper arms, keeping her steady.

If it weren’t for the still-tender, vibro-blade wound exactly where his hand holds to her right arm, his grip on her would feel safe and strong and welcome. Instead, she cries out in pain from it, starling him so much that he falls out of the small bed from releasing her so suddenly. She might have laughed were it not for the terrified look in his eyes coupled with the stinging ache in her skin.

Ben sits up from the floor with trepidation, confused and far less sure of himself than he was a second ago. “What— Did I— What happened?” he sputters, staring fiercely at where her fingers rub around the bandaged laceration gently, trying to soothe the pain.

Rey had cleaned and wrapped her injury in the ‘fresher a few hours ago before turning in. Her work is no substitute for a bacta patch but seeing as she and Ben have yet to come by supplies it’s the best she can do given the circumstances.

“You, uh, grabbed my wound.” Her tone is not unkind, simply explanatory, yet Ben’s face whitens at her words, his jaw working nervously, something he does when he’s thinking, she’s noticed. “Don’t worry, I forgot it was there, too, in all honesty.” He doesn’t look convinced.

Raising himself up onto his knees, Ben leans towards her arm and begins undoing the wrapping. She lets him, and upon seeing the cut he winces. “We’re going to need to put some bacta on that soon.” His voice is near silent. “Was it hurting before—“ Trailing off, he knows he doesn’t need to finish the sentence for her to comprehend what he means.

“No. No, like I said, I’d forgotten about it, really,” Rey says quickly, not wanting him to feel bad for not remembering.

He hums thoughtfully and looks up at her, rumination painted over his unsure expression. Rey’s about to tell him that she’s fine, that he shouldn’t worry so much about a ‘tiny, little scratch’ when he places his lips softly over the wound. It’s slow and chaste, but has the same effect as every other kiss he gives her: Warmth radiating from the point of contact, singing through her veins until she feels nothing but _him_. 

His kiss doesn’t close up the wound or even rid her of it's pain but it subdues it, making it easier to manage with what they have for now.

Rey combs a hand through his hair, siphoning his attention back to her eyes. “You— You’re—“ She can’t quite put into words all that she wants to say to him. How can someone so volatile be so still? She knows this connection they share, this bond, serves as a reprieve for him, putting him at ease when nothing else will. But why can’t he be this way when he’s not with her? Kind and understanding. Concerned and _gentle_.

“Because no one but you has treated me that way in return,” he answers her thoughts bashfully, his cheeks growing red from seeing into her mind. Seeing what she thinks of him. _As if he didn’t already know..._

“You’re very confusing to me,” she states, deciding the phrase covers how she feels well enough.

The corners of Ben’s mouth quirk up but don’t quite reach a full smile. “I find I have that effect on people.” He stretches up to kiss the tip of her nose and asks casually, “Where did you put our lightsabers?”

_Oh...OUR lightsabers..._

She reaches under the bunk next to theirs to retrieve them, feeling around on the metal flooring for a while before giving up and calling the bundle of his clothes to her hand.

“You'll want to keep one of those on you once we get to the refueling station on Eadu.” He smirks knowingly at her. “Since you’ll be dealing with all the ‘public affairs’.” 

“Eadu?” The details of their destination don’t matter much to her if she’s being honest, but if there’s cause to carry a lightsaber she wants to know why. 

_Where am I going to keep it?_

She can’t just wear one on her hip where everyone could see it. Rey knows her disposition is far from suspicious, but who in the galaxy carries a lightsaber anymore? She’s bound to set off red flags if she can’t find a way to conceal it.

“It’s a small planet,” Ben describes for her, not concerned with her lightsaber predicament in the slightest. “There’s not much on it save for an abandoned Imperial lab, flight station, and the refueling center we’re stopping at.” He doesn’t appear to be concerned about anyone recognizing her there either. 

“So why do I need a lightsaber, then?”

“You probably won’t.” He smiles at her, oddly enough. “It’ll be precautionary.”

_Why isn’t he worried?_

“I’m being optimistic,” he says, answering her silent question. “I know you can handle yourself.”

“Hmm.” Rey appreciates the compliment but can’t help feeling a bit anxious in spite of it. They’d been recognized on Naboo. Where else would they be recognized? 

The logical part of her brain knows there’s no conceivable way the First Order could have gotten a decent Holo of her during the short time she was on the _Supremacy_ , so it’s only Ben people will notice. But a much less logical part of her wonders if people will be able to just look at her and know. Know that she’s on the run with one of the most hated figures in the galaxy. Know that she’s protecting him. Know that she...

_“Rey...”_ Ben places a hand on her knee, his eyes pleading her to listen. _“No one is going to know who you are.”_

_I know, I’m just not used to this._ She motions a hand between the two of them and finishes aloud, “My actions affecting someone other than myself.”

On Jakku she’d had no one but herself. If she screwed herself over she dealt with the consequences. _Alone._ But now Ben would have to face the consequences with her. And she knows if they get turned in his punishments will far surpass hers on all fronts. So she can’t let that happen. She won’t.

“But I’m not going to think about that,” Rey says with only marginally faked gusto. “I need to figure out a way to carry a saber on me without _looking_ like I‘m carrying a saber on me.”

“Why can’t they stay like that?” He points to the wad of his clothes in her lap concealing their weapons.

“Too bulky.”

He nods slowly. “What about your body wraps? Could you do something with those?”

It’s not a bad idea, the only thing that worries her about it is the thinness of her wrapping’s fabric. “I could try to make a satchel but it probably won’t hold with the material.”

Ben tilts his chin up ever so slightly, something else he does while thinking. He looks around the dimly lit cabin for a moment, his eyes finally settling on the couple layers of clothing she hadn’t slept in piled on the bed adjacent to theirs. “Stand up, I have an idea.” She gets up as he plucks her dark tunic from the floor, handing it to her to put on. He grabs her belt next, then rifles through his folded clothes until he produces Luke’s saber. _Her saber._ He clips it onto her belt and hands that to her as well. She’s about to fasten it overtop her tunic when he stops her. “Put it under,” he says, swift hands unhooking the belt and replacing it high on her waist beneath the tunic. The time he takes securing the buckles proves far longer than necessary but she makes no complaint, enjoying the brisk movements of his fingers across her abdomen.

“Are you really trying to help me hide the saber, or are you just using it as an excuse to touch me?” Rey asks smugly, barely above a whisper.

“Can’t it be both?” His eyes flit to hers, hooded and amused.

She only hums and lets him continue. He closes her tunic and winds her body wrappings around her waist, somehow creating loops on either side of her hips while keeping her middle tight and secure. “Okay, spin around.” Rey follows his instructions, watching him nod as she goes. “I can’t see it.” He smiles faintly at his craftsmanship. “Good thing you wear so many layers.”

Rey can’t say why that makes her blush — especially considering she just spent the last several minutes running her hands over anywhere she could reach on him — but it does. Ben must read that specific thought of hers because his cheeks go red as well before he says, “I’m going to go check the navicomputer, see how much longer it’ll be ‘til we get there.”

“All right, but don’t take too long.” He quirks an eyebrow up at her in surprise, his cheeks somehow flushing redder. She rolls her eyes, clarifying, “I just want to know if there’s anything other than fuel I’m getting at the station.”

His mouth makes a funny little ‘o’ shape before he nods and heads up the corridor to the cockpit.

Rey shakes her head but goes about putting her boots on, tucking a couple of credit chips from the shuttle into the top of them. Carding her fingers through her hair, she tries to tamp it down into something resembling less of a bloggin’s nest but doesn’t do much good for it. She decides to pull it back, years of practice working through her three-bun style at close to light speed. She’s securing the last strands into her third bun when she feels the hum of Ben’s presence return to the door. 

Turning to him she finds something wistful and sad swimming in his eyes. Though before she can ask what’s wrong, he speaks, “We’ll be there in about half an hour.”

“Oh, good thing we woke up, then,” she says, still not entirely sure what to make of his doleful expression. But he doesn’t seem keen to explain himself so she changes the subject. “Are you sure you can’t see the saber?” she asks spinning around, lifting her arms in the air.

“Can’t see a thing.” A meek smile forms on his lips as he walks into the room, brushing his fingers over her bare, right arm. “Do you want me to rewrap this?” His hand hovers over the slow-healing laceration near her shoulder.

“Sure.”

Ben huffs peaceably and grabs one of her discarded arm wrappings, taking care to adjust it over her wound light-handedly, not applying too much pressure. “So I’m refueling and picking up bacta patches, anything else?”

“A razor if you can find one,” Ben says distractedly, engrossed in his task. “And rations, definitely rations.”

As if on cue, Rey’s stomach grumbles, seeming to remember how long it’s been since she’s eaten something. _Ahch-To...I haven’t eaten since Ahch-To._ She thinks, aghast with her realization. _That was almost a full day ago..._ “Yes, definitely rations,” she repeats back to him. 

“Hmm, definitely,” he mumbles, dipping his head and kissing down her arm slowly.

Rey lets herself sink into the tingle of his breath on her skin for a few moments, flicking her eyes closed to better relish the feeling. But she has to stay focused. She needs to be quick once they get to the refueling station on Eadu; in and out, no time for anyone to think anything of her.

“All right, slow down, big guy,” she chides him, failing to hide the giggle in her voice. 

“Big guy?” he teases, kissing her first knuckle wetly.

Rey sighs, bringing that knuckle up to pop the underside of his nose affectionately. “Don’t distract me.” 

“I could argue that _you’re_ distracting _me_ ,” he replies smugly, catching her wrist and drawing her towards him.

“It’s wholly unintentional,” she kisses the bob of his throat, “I can promise you that.”

Ben shudders but pulls back to look down at her face, worry finally crossing his features. “Can you promise me that you’ll be careful?”

“Promise.”

————

Eadu’s refueling center is an oblong, steel structure levitating just below the atmosphere, sparing travelers from navigating the planet’s brutal, storm-like weather to refuel their ships. Landing platforms jut out from every angle of the station in a vertical, spiraling formation, each with fuel canisters for purchase on one end and entrances to the building on the other. Ben lands their freighter on the topmost platform of the station, affording them a quick exit should they need one and lowers the ramp to let her out.

The fuel canisters are easy enough to load and pay for out on the landing pad but it’s walking into the building that stops Rey in her tracks. She knows there’s nothing especially unique about the interior of the refueling center, but the bustle of over-populated, overstocked sales outlets never ceases to take her breath away, having spent thirteen remembered years of her life surrounded by just the opposite.

The station’s steel exterior bleeds inside, giving the multi-leveled store an industrial appearance despite its plethora of commercial goods. Rey allows herself to revel in the buzz of the refueling center, still unaccustomed to how unaffected everyone else is by the casual opulence of free commerce. She can only assume every floor is identical to this one, with food vendors, starship supply services, rest areas, and medical and hygiene items; everything a passing wayfarer might need. She wants to investigate every corner of the outlet, let herself be astounded by the seemingly endless amount of goods she could take part in, but she has to keep a low profile and keep moving. 

_Okay...rations, razor, bacta patches...rations, razor, bacta patches...rations, razor, bacta patches…_

The silent mantra keeps her alert as she meanders through the outlet as efficiently as she can manage. No one has yet to pay her any mind, which she takes as encouragement as she goes about gathering supplies. She stops for nothing except what she and Ben decided was necessary until she comes upon a rack of untailored men’s shirts, probably meant to be worn under industrial work uniforms. Neither of them has any spare clothes and these are plain, inconspicuous, and cheap. 

Rey eyeballs it on the sizing, picking a few shirts off the rack haphazardly, then continues looking for the rest of what they need. She’s picking out food rations when the holonet above the checkout area — which had been playing low, pleasant music — switches to a First Order news station, grabbing her attention.

An overly chipper newscaster babbles on about the First Order’s ‘setback’ with the Resistance in the Crait System and how Supreme Leader Hux is taking all measures necessary to ensure the safety of the Order.

_That doesn’t sound good._

The video cuts to a recording of the red-haired man she ‘shot’ in the throne room on the _Supremacy_. He makes a rousing speech about military strength and new leadership that she can’t quite hear all of because she moves to the far end of the store in search of bacta patches. The newscaster comes back, seeming to deliberate on whatever it was Hux was saying. After another moment or two, the screen switches again and Rey nearly vomits on the spot.

A image of her and Ben in the shipyard on Naboo flashes over the holovid, their faces as visible as the sun on Jakku.

_Not good._

Rey makes her way to the registers, trying to hear what the newscaster is saying about them while also trying to keep her head down. A Quarren sales attendant near her asks if she’s ready to check out, having not noticed the holonet behind him, and she nods, deciding a swift exit is her best option.

“Where are you headed?” the salesman asks her pleasantly as he bags her items.

“Uh,” she hesitates, “home.” _That’s vague enough..._

“Oh, where’s that?”

Rey allows herself a second to panic before responding. “Far,” she says, forcing out a laugh.

Thankfully the attendant laughs too. “Yeah, I know that feeling. Well, I hope you get there safe.” He smiles, handing her purchases back to her, still unaware of the holonet just behind him identifying her as a wanted fugitive.

“Me too.” She fakes a smile and turns to leave when she hears the words _“Suspects were last seen leaving Naboo in a Ghtroc 720-Class freighter, light grey”_ come from the newscaster’s mouth.

It takes all Rey has in her not to run out the door like a madwoman, but she stills herself and exits the refueling center at a normal, un-crazed pace. The walk down the landing platform is the longest in her life, bile rising in her throat with every step. 

When she reaches their ship she wastes no time. Closing the ramp with the Force while she’s still on it and tossing her bag of purchases into the loungeport, she screams, “BEN! We have to leave! NOW!” 

She’s barely in the cockpit when the freighter roars to life and he’s yelling back at her, frantic, “What happened?”

“The First Order knows what ship we’re flying.” If Ben’s eyes widened anymore they would pop out of his skull. “I saw a holo of us in the shipyard on Theed. Someone must have looked through security recordings and sent them in.” She settles herself in the copilot’s seat and helps Ben take off. “Where can we go now?” Rey turns to look at him, anxious and imploring, but he doesn’t speak.

At least not until they’re out of Eadu’s atmosphere and he’s scrolling through the navicomputer in a frenzy. “We need to go somewhere with no affiliation to the First Order,” he says tonelessly, still searching through coordinates. Rey has no inkling as to where a place like that could be but Ben’s jaw is squirming in thought, his eyes narrowing every few systems he looks through; it’s not long before he stops. “Raxus. We could go to Raxus.” He smiles at her, looking half-mad. “Raxus has been independent since the Empire fell. They don’t heed the First Order’s law, we could stay there however long we need.” He laughs sharply and punches in the coordinates, but pauses. “We’ll still want to be discreet, but we’d be safe there. And we’d probably be able to live in—”

Rey throws herself across the cockpit and smashes her lips against his, preventing him from rambling nervously. “I don’t really care, Ben,” she says as kindly as possible, trying to stifle her amusement at the startled look on his face. “Let’s just _go_.”

He nods absentmindedly, jaw slack, and activates the freighter’s hyperdrive.

“Thank you,” she whispers and kisses his cheek as she gets up and leaves the cockpit, motioning for him to follow. “I bought us some extra shirts since we don’t have any other clothes.”

“Oh, I didn’t even think of that.” He still sounds slightly surprised, which makes her chuckle under her breath.

Once they reach the ship’s loungeport Rey picks up her discarded bag of purchases and sifts through the contents, retrieving a couple of ration packs and tearing them open. They eat in silence, the gravity of their situation weighing heavy in the air. 

“Rey?” Ben says her name apologetically, for whatever reason. She hums at him to continue, her mouth full. “You— You don’t have to stay with me.” His voice trembles but she pretends not to notice. “I’ve made you a target and I won’t stop you if you want to go back to the Resistance.” She thinks he’s trying to fool her at first but his face is serious. Determined. “You can take the ship and leave me on Raxus. I’ll be fine on my own and you can—”

Rey takes his hand warmly, his eyes flitting to hers apprehensively. “I’m not going back to the Resistance, Ben. I’m staying with you.”

His eyes well up, something they do more often than she would have expected. “Why?” he asks, his expression that of someone whose whole galaxy would crumble if she turned away from him now.

“I promised to help you, remember?” She tries to speak as steadily as possible, wanting him to understand the sincerity of her words. “We’re in this together, Ben.”

**————————**

“General,” Lieutenant Connix calls out from the cockpit of the _Falcon_. “You’re going to want to see this.” 

Leia sighs and makes her way down the ship’s familiar corridor, loathing the nuisance of her cane every step of the way. 

“What is it?” Dameron asks from behind her, hot on her heels like he has been since Chewie helped them evacuate the abandoned Rebel base on Crait. 

“I found the First Order’s transmissions frequency like you asked, General,” Connix explains once they’ve entered the cockpit. “And I came across a couple of news transmissions that might be of interest to you.” She turns on the small holonet of the _Falcon’s_ control panel and a news feed begins playing. Connix fast forwards through a good chunk of the announcement before stopping at a seemingly random point, letting them listen to the newscaster finish her report. _“Supreme Leader Hux implores anyone who sees this man,”_ the image on the holonet changes and all the air goes out of Leia, _“to turn him over to the authorities. He is considered highly dangerous and will likely be traveling with an adult, human female of average height and lean build, brown hair, also considered dangerous.”_ Leia sits down as Lieutenant Connix switches to another First Order news feed, not even paying attention to whatever nonsense General, no, Supreme Leader Hux spews in the recording.

It was him. It was really him. 

Her son. 

_Ben._

The holo was grainy and at a peculiar angle but it was unmistakably _him_. How long has it been since she’s seen his face? _Too long..._ But why would the First Order be after him? What had he done? And Rey! Who else could the woman with him be? Chewie had neglected to explain exactly why he had come to their aid alone, simply claiming that Rey had informed him of their situation and that he hadn’t heard from her since. She'd left her homing beacon on the _Falcon _so there's been no way to decipher her whereabouts, but she must have been close by to know they were on Crait. Or had she sensed them from wherever in the galaxy she was with Luke? _Doubtful…_ No, she had to have seen them escape. If she wasn’t with them and she wasn’t with Chewie, she must have been with the First Order. Leia can’t figure a reason why that would be aside from the one the news is presenting her with: Rey is with Ben. __

____

____

“General?” Dameron’s usually animated voice is sober as he addresses her, concern swimming in his eyes at her deflated state. “There’s another one,” he says, pointing at the holovid. A second image of Ben flashes at her, but in this one, he’s not alone, in this one Rey is with him.

_I was right..._

“Leia,” Dameron kneels beside her and whispers, “Is that— I mean, that can’t be— Is that really—” 

“Ben.” His name sounds so strange on her tongue after so many years of avoiding it. Like something between a curse and a prayer.

“I thought he was dead.”

Leia weighs the consequences of telling him that Ben hadn’t died the night Luke’s temple burned down, telling him that Ben was the rogue student who’d destroyed it all, but decides it’s not the proper time or place. So she lies: “So did I.”

Dameron places a warm hand on her shoulder before he and Connix begin discussing what all this information means for the Resistance. She tunes them out. At some point during their conversation the young, First Order defector, Finn, walks into the cockpit. The three of them replay the holovids over and over as Leia closes her eyes and reaches out with her feelings. Just like Luke had taught her to do so long ago.

At first, she feels like she’s stumbling around an empty room with nothing to hold onto, nothing to reach for. But then she feels the swell of life buzzing in the _Falcon_ , each member of the Resistance reflected through the Force. Leia grabs onto that, using it to ground her while she searches for something she’s not sure she’ll find. 

It’s been such a long time since Leia used the Force for something like this. She’s not lifting rocks with her mind, or attempting to glimpse the future, or connecting with the Living Force. She’s simply reaching out. The last time she’d tried this was when she sensed Ben’s fall to the Dark Side, finding only an unnatural, consuming cold and a shell of the boy her son used to be.

But she’s reaching again. Reaching for her son. Hoping beyond hope that this time will be different.

Leia extends herself through the Force for what feels like a lifetime, stretching to the edge of her breaking point, nearly losing connection with the hum of reality around her. But she’s found it. After almost seven years of being without him, she’s found what she came looking for. And it’s more beautiful than she ever remembers it being. 

Ben’s Light.


	5. Good Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn comes face to face with uncertainty. Ben and Rey arrive on Raxus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change ^^

“That— That’s Kylo Ren.” Finn’s eyes rove over the holonet in disbelief. “What’s he doing on a wanted list?”

Ren is the last person in the galaxy Finn could imagine defecting from the Order. And for no purpose at all, it seems: the news transmission hadn’t elaborated on exactly what he’d done to estrange himself. So what was it? A power play, perhaps in defiance of Hux who’d ascended the Supreme Leader’s throne in wake of Snoke? 

_That doesn’t make sense..._

The news feed Connix switches to claims Snoke died by the hand of a radical Resistance pilot ramming their cruiser through the Supreme Leader’s dreadnought at lightspeed; Vice Admiral Holdo, Poe had told him. No mention as to where Ren or Hux were when that took place though.

_Still doesn’t add up..._

Why would Hux be after Ren? Especially now with the First Order fractured, he shouldn’t be wasting his time in pursuit of a man accused only of being ‘highly dangerous’ without good reason. Ren must have done something after the Supreme Leader died, something worth hunting him down for.

“What?” Poe exclaims beside him, waiting for Connix to bring up another transmission for Finn to see.

“What?” he echoes back, pointing to the _Falcon’s_ control panel. “That wanted man we just saw, that’s Kylo Ren.” Poe quirks an eyebrow up at him incredulously. “Look I would know, I fought him on _Starkiller_. I _saw_ him. He’s the one who sliced my back, remember?”

Poe looks lost for a moment and Connix stops fiddling with the holonet to glance sideways at Finn before returning to her task.

“But,” Poe runs a hand through his hair, eyes snapping to Finn’s as though he’s just realized a terrible truth. “That’s Leia’s _son_.”

“What are you talking about?” _How could Kylo Ren be General Organa’s son?_ That would make Solo his father, wouldn’t it? And he’d killed him. That, above anything, makes no sense. No, Ren couldn’t be Leia’s son. 

Poe glances carefully at the older woman sitting behind them, her eyes trained on the floor, but Connix speaks before he can say anything to the General, “Here’s the last transmission, Dameron wanted you to see this.”

The holo glitches and displays another image of Kylo Ren — seemingly in a public setting rather than onboard a First Order vessel as he was in the earlier transmission — and he’s with...

“REY!” Her name rips from Finn’s throat in horror. _What is she doing with him? How did he take her hostage? Is he torturing her? Has he killed her already?_

“I thought so too,” Connix says, her voice pensive. “I saw her bring you back from _Starkiller Base_ and wondered if it was her.”

“That’s why I called ya in here, buddy.” Poe clasps his shoulder to steady him and it does help, to a certain degree. “The first holo we saw of,” he pauses and twerks his mouth sourly before continuing, “ _Kylo Ren_ said he would be with a woman. And this girl— what’s her name, Rey?” He motions to Rey’s figure on the holonet. “She fits the description given. That is her, right?”

Finn can only nod.

“Well, she was spotted _stealing_ a star freighter on Naboo,” Connix mentions dryly. “Would you know anything about that? I thought she was supposed to be helping us, looking for Luke Skywalker and all that.”

“I don’t know, maybe Ren’s kidnapped her. Maybe he forced her to steal the ship, I don’t— I don’t know.” Finn turns to General Organa, hoping she can shed light on some of this, but he finds her eyes closed and head down. She clutches the handle of her cane with white knuckles, sweat shimmers on her brow as her breaths become labored. She looks as though she’s meditating but going about it all the wrong way.

“Leia?” Poe says uneasily, moving to crouch in front of her and nudging her shoulders lightly. “General, are you all right?”

She doesn’t come to for a few minutes and as they wait, Finn memorizes the holo of Rey. The nervous way she holds her frame, the frightened look in her eyes, the ever-looming presence of Kylo Ren beside her. Who knows what horrible things he’s done to her, what horrible things he _plans_ to do. 

_We have to help her..._

He could take a team. Poe would come along surely and Chewie would want to help. Maybe Connix too and Rose... _Oh, Rose..._ She would help, no doubt, if she could. But she’s only just woken up, and her head injury is far from healed. She could run communications here, — or wherever the Resistance ends up planting itself — keep them posted on dealings with the First Order and if there are any more sightings of Rey. Yes, she could do that, Rose could help too.

“General?” Poe says again and Finn watches as the small woman opens her eyes. Though it takes a moment or two for him to notice the tears falling down her cheeks. “General, what were you doing?” Poe’s question toes the line between relief and annoyance.

“Looking,” the General responds plainly as if they should all know what she means.

“For what, exactly?” The irritation evident in Poe’s voice now.

“Hope.” The faintest of smiles plays at her lips when she says the word.

_Again with the cryptic answers._

“Does she— Do you do that often?” Finn asks, turning to Leia, not entirely sure what it was she had done. “Were you looking for Rey?”

She shakes her head softly, though to which question she doesn’t specify. 

“Well, did you find it, General? Did you find hope?” Poe asks bluntly. Sarcastically. Then he stands and rests his hands on his hips in anticipation.

The older woman doesn’t answer at first, something on the floor catching her attention as her brow furrows, everyone in the cockpit waits for her response. When she speaks, she sounds content, “I think I did.”

Poe’s hands fly in the air, exasperated, but Finn speaks up. “General, I think Kylo Ren might have kidnapped Rey.” Leia stares blankly at him, her mind clearly elsewhere, but he persists, “Do you know anything about that? Or do you have a plan to get her back? I’d gladly volunteer myself to go get—“

Leia raises a hand gingerly to stop him, it’s commanding without being unkind. “Rey is fine. I don’t know where she is, but I know she will be all right without us.” She pauses and so does the room. Finn, Poe, and Connix all freeze at her words, dumbfounded. “In fact, I believe we’d be doing her a great disservice by chasing after her. She’s pursuing a personal mission in which I feel she is succeeding. And I doubt she would want us sending valuable Resistance soldiers in search of her when our work to rebuild here is so immense.”

The cockpit is silent. Still.

“With all due respect, General,” Poe finally sighs, visibly mulling over his thoughts, “if that man,” he flings a hand towards the holonet image of Ren and Rey, “is really Kylo Ren, then I don’t think Finn’s friend is going to be ‘all right without us’. I mean, I’ve been tortured by him, I know she’s not safe.” Leia opens her mouth to argue — though a content lightness still dances over her features — but Poe interrupts her, “ _Is_ that Kylo Ren? Is— Is he...” He doesn’t finish, whatever he had planned on saying wearing down on him.

“Yes.” Leia’s tone is firm when she speaks, yet apologetic somehow. “Yes, he is my son.”

Poe’s face falls into his hands as he mutters curses and confusions. Connix shuts down the holonet and turns around completely in her chair, eyes wide. And Finn can’t seem to find it in him to make noise, or move, or even breathe, but he feels his hatred for that monster deepen in his gut.

“Why didn’t you te—“ Poe’s question is cut off as Leia begins to explain.

“I was ashamed,” she states, eyes unyielding and hard. “Not only of my son’s choices but of myself. I thought I was doing right by him, sending him to Luke, to his uncle.” Leia pinches the bridge of her nose and leans forward in her seat, taking a moment to choose her next words. “I never understood the Force the way Luke did. I could wield it just as well, but when it came to the,” she pauses, waving a hand in the air in search of the right term, “ _mystic_ aspects, I often fell short. I never felt as though I was being pulled one way or the other by the Force, it simply existed within me, allowed me to channel it when I wanted. But Luke...” Her eyes fill with fresh tears before she carries on. “Luke felt that pull; from Light to Dark and then back again. I’d seen it in him when we were young. When he had to face our fath— When he had to face _Vader_. And then,” fat tears roll down her face, wetting the collar of her gown, “then I saw that same pull in my _son_. And I didn’t think I could do anything for him, I didn’t think I could protect him from that. So I sent him to Luke hoping it would help, but I lost him anyway.” 

Poe shifts uncomfortably where he stands at the General’s vulnerability but asks without missing a beat, “Ben was the student who destroyed the Jedi temple, wasn’t he?” 

Leia glares at him with something akin to agitation but answers him with a nod despite her expression. He glares right back, locked in some wordless battle with the General.

_But what about Rey?_

“So, we do need to go after Rey,” Finn interjects. “Poe agrees, she could be in danger. I mean, we don’t know if Ren’s using some kind of mind trick on her, or if he’s forcing her to take him to—“

“Finn,” Leia says pleadingly. “I’m inclined to believe Rey is with my son on her own volition.”

_Why would she do that?_ She wouldn’t. She knows how dangerous he is. She wouldn’t just give herself up without a fight. _No, he has to have taken her hostage or something..._

The General continues, begging not only Finn but Connix and Poe as well, to listen, “I think she might have seen something in him, in Ben, that I was too afraid to see.”

“No. No! Rey knows better,” Finn shakes his head as if trying to expel the seeds of doubt from taking root in his mind. “She wouldn’t— We watched him murder Solo! Murder his _father_!” It’s only after the words fall from his mouth that Finn catches the way Leia winces. “I’m sorry, General, but I know Rey. She wouldn’t go to Ren willingly.”

Leia looks at him for a long, long time. _Really_ looks at him. Enough so that Finn gets the strangest feeling she might be reading him, sifting through his thoughts, measuring the sincerity of his heart, his resolve. But when she finally speaks — exuding wisdom and composure — his resolve does falter, if only for a moment, “In my experience, Finn, we never know anyone as well as we think we do.”

**————————**

It’s barely a whisper. Barely the brush of a hair. But Ben can feel it, somewhere tucked away in the corner of his mind. It’s warm and familiar and _sad_.

_Leia..._

He had sensed his mother’s presence not three days ago on her cruiser, had held the balance of her life between his thumb and a trigger, had felt her sense his presence right back.

But this is different. It’s separate from proximity. It’s intentional. She’s reaching out to him on purpose, wanting him to acknowledge her in return and that worries him. What worries him more though is that he reaches right back, eagerly, desperate for the connection.

It’s only for an instant, but it’s an instant too long.

Ben pulls away from the feeling of his mother disgusted, both with her and himself. He can’t let himself be drawn in by her hollow promises of forgiveness, of acceptance, compelling as they may be. Not after what she’s done to him, what he’s done to her.

“Ben?” Rey’s voice rings through his ears, pulling him back to reality. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he lies, remembering his task of applying bacta to her arm and using it to push the thought of his mother from his head.

“All right,” she mutters, unconvinced, as he seals the medical patch over her wound. 

He doesn’t need to tell her, she can look for herself if she wants to know. She probably has already, though she makes no comment if she does.

“How long will it take us to get to Raxus?” she asks instead.

“The hyperlane we’re using should get us there in about an hour, give or take?” he says, grateful for a question not regarding himself.

Ben had been apprehensive when jumping from the Crait System to Naboo and from Naboo to Eadu. The First Order was still close enough that the threat of hyperspace tracking was probable, so he’d picked slower, less commercial lanes to travel through, figuring the Order was less likely to find them if they jumped space like they weren’t on the run. 

But they’re in the Outer Rim now; Laws are looser and the First Order, in turn, is weaker. So upon leaving Eadu, Ben felt comfortable enough to set a course for Raxus through a faster lane, knowing both he and Rey want, no, need to _slow down_ somewhere as fast as they can manage it.

“Oh, that’s quicker than I expected,” she says quietly, thoughtfully. Then asks, “Does Raxus have a spaceport?”

Ben racks his brain for the minute amount of knowledge he has pertaining to the planet, but can’t recall anything about spaceports. “I’m sure they do in the capital city. But I don’t think we should be landing anywhere close to a public area, at least for now,” he says, hand smoothing over her bacta patch and running down her arm.

“No, no, I don’t think we should either,” she replies hurriedly, taking his hand when it reaches hers. “I was just wondering if it was like Jakku: Few and far between civilizations and all that.”

_Jakku?_ Why would they go to a place like Jakku? Never in a thousand lifetimes. “Well, I know it has rural countries if that’s what you mean, but it’s capital — if I’m remembering correctly — is urban and highly populated.”

Rey nods a bit more than necessary, — still jittery from the newsfeed she’d seen on Eadu — but reaches into her bag of items from the refueling station, changing the subject. “Do you want your razor?”

Ben had forgotten asking for a razor. He’d been so concerned with getting them someplace safe after Rey told him the Order had a holo of the both of them now. So startled by her frenzied need to be elsewhere, _anywhere_ else. So confused that she would want to stay with him even though he’s only put her in harm's way as if she wasn’t already before. But he tamps those feelings down and accepts the razor from her hands.

“Maybe you shouldn’t shave,” she supplies, following him as he makes his way to the ‘fresher. “You don’t have facial hair in the holos, it might help us keep a lower profile.”

He can’t help but chuckle at that, to which she looks at him with half-hearted contempt. “I don’t think _not shaving_ will do much by way of changing my appearance. Besides,” he walks into the ‘fresher and turns the sink on, “I don’t like it.”

“Why not?” She actually sounds interested in how he might answer. 

_Peculiar girl…_ he thinks fondly, debating whether or not he should reveal just how vain he is, how self-conscious, and tell her he doesn’t particularly care for the way he looks with facial hair. “It’s scratchy,” he settles for instead, smirking at her in the mirror as he runs the razor over his chin. 

She must read his thoughts because she tells him she thinks he would look just fine with a beard. He blushes but proceeds with his task, trying not to think about the razor burn he’s going to get from practically dry shaving. “You do this every day?” Rey asks nonchalantly, though with her interest still piqued. He hums a ‘yes’. 

“That must be tedious.” She kicks a boot softly against the doorframe and continues. “Did you know some people remove _all_ their body hair? I can’t imagine how long that must take.”

Ben’s smile reaches his eyes amusedly as he looks at her again. “I might’ve heard that’s something people do,” he teases and she scoffs. “It’s not that bad. I don’t have much to shave, though. Just my face.”

Rey's quiet for a moment, seeming to consider his words, — _Peculiar, peculiar girl_ — then shakes her head. “No, I still think it’d be annoying.” 

He laughs and turns to her, holding out the razor. “Do you want to try?” Ben realizes only after he offers what a casual act of intimacy that would be. A part of him craves it, wants something like that with her, every day until he dies. But another part of him fears it. How long can they allow themselves these little pleasures before the First Order catches up and rips her away from him?

“Oh, no,” she lifts her hands in the air dismissively, clearly unaffected by his dour thoughts, “I don't think that's a good idea. I’d probably cut you or something.”

“On purpose?” He raises an eyebrow coquettishly, permitting himself to have, at least, this moment. “Or on accident?”

She moves towards him with a hum, taking the razor from his hand and setting it on the sink beside them. “That depends...” Her voice is low, playful and Ben’s heart flutters with anticipation. She runs her fingers along his now stubble-free chin, wiping away the little droplets of water still lingering there. Ben dips his head closer to hers, oblivious of the motion. “How do I do it?” she asks impishly, picking the razor up once more and waving it in his face dalliantly. As if on instinct, Ben picks Rey up by the waist, — eliciting a noise somewhere in between a laugh and a screech from her — and sets her on the counter gingerly, eagerly. “Let me know next time you plan on doing that,” she chides, snickering.

“I probably won’t,” Ben mumbles, smirking as he leans in to kiss her. But she presses the razor against his lips lightly, preventing him from coming any closer.

“You’re letting me finish your shave first.” Her grin widens, crinkling her eyes. “Then I can tell you, with experience, how unnecessary it is.” With a chuckle, Ben turns the sink back on, clasping her hand holding the razor and lowering it into the stream of water. “I know what to do,” she exclaims in mock defiance, releasing her hand from his grip while bringing the other to his jaw, stroking along the stubble there for no other reason than to touch him. 

“You just asked me how to do it,” he laughs at her sharply but she covers his mouth with her hand.

“If you keep talking,” she brings the razor to the bob of his throat threateningly, “I _will_ cut you.”

Ben knows she’s joking with him but he picks up on a wave of nervousness from her that she might, actually, _do just that_. So he mumbles, “I don’t think you will,” placatingly into her palm and kisses it, letting his lips linger near the steady heartbeat in her wrist. Rey’s breath trembles as she pulls her hand back, repositioning herself on the counter and pulling him closer by the shoulder to angle the razor on his face the way she needs. When she first runs the blade along his jaw he closes his eyes and lets her work, focusing on the way every hair at the nape of his neck stands on end with each tentative stroke she makes. He can feel her face inching ever closer, her breath falling soft across his cheeks as she shaves and shaves and shaves; The razor gliding over his skin with almost practiced precision, never drawing a single bead of blood. She shaves until there’s nothing left to shave, leaving his face cool and clean and smooth. Rey doesn’t remove her hands though, holding his jaw firmly and Ben waits for her to kiss him, shivering with excitement, longing for that buzz of connection. But their mouths never meet. Instead, she brings her lips to his eyelids — featherlight and warm — and Ben experiences the most _peculiar_ , unsteady, rushing sensation in his knees. He whimpers, losing control of his body for a moment or two before opening his eyes slowly.

“Let me know next time you plan on doing that,” he says quietly, mimicking her earlier request.

Her hands roam his features, fingers running over his scar, his nose, his brow, counting every mole splattered across his face. She combs his hair back from his temples — he loves it when she does that — and rests her arms overtop his shoulders, sighing dramatically before whispering, “No.” It’s all she says as she hops down from the counter limberly, making her way out of the ‘fresher.

Ben hurries into the corridor after her, hunching his shoulders and wrapping his arms around her middle, stepping in time with her towards the loungeport. “I wasn’t done with you yet,” he complains, voice muffled as he kisses her shoulder.

“Oh, really?” she responds with a laugh. “Well, you’re making it very difficult for me to walk.”

He smiles against her skin, pushing more of his weight into her, slowing her further. “I’m not apologizing for that.”

“Hmm, I didn’t think you would.” Rey trudges through the loungeport, dragging him behind her, and stops at what looks to be access to an escape pod. Except there’s no pod on the other side, only the blue swirl of hyperspace. “I was hoping they were lying about the missing escape pod,” she mutters to herself. “I didn’t have a chance to look when we left Naboo or the fuel center.”

“Well, we only need one.” They’re not a full crew running shipments per usual of freighters like this. “Hopefully we won’t have to use it.” If they stay on Raxus they shouldn’t have to, they’ll be _safe_.

“Hopefully,” Rey repeats back hushedly, turning around and unhooking his arms from her waist. “I want to get to know the ship a little bit more before we land.” Her phrasing leaves Ben wondering whether she’s asking him to join her or asking him not to bother her. He opts for the former and follows her through the freighter contentedly. She makes no protest.

They make little conversation as they inspect the escape pod they have left, noting its enlarged size for accommodating high capacities. Rey pays particular attention to the engineering station across from the pod, delighted to have a well-equipped area to work on repairs for the ship if the need arises. They make their way into the cargo holds and find them as tall as they are wide, durasteel, and the perfect place to train or spar should they so choose; Ben likes that idea _very_ much. The engine rooms are basic, if not a bit cramped in the back near the coolant tubes, but similar to any other large ship just the same. When they finally head up to the cockpit, — realizing there really isn’t much to learn about from the standard freighter after all — Rey begins familiarizing herself with the gunnery station while Ben checks their time. 

“We’re only a few minutes out,” he says to her, trying to stifle his glee because they’re just _so close_. So close to a place where they can rest, and explore the nature of their bond without the First Order casting its shadow upon them. But Rey doesn’t respond, her eyes still trained on the gunnery’s control panel, deep in thought.

_Rey?_ He reaches out to her mind, debating if he should look inside, find the cause for her silence. _Rey, are you all ri—_

“How long do you think we’ll stay on Raxus?” she interrupts him aloud.

He doesn’t really have an answer to that question. “As long as we need, I suppose,” he replies, deeming the response adequate enough. “If we keep out of people’s way.”

“That could be a long time,” she mumbles and Ben can’t quite tell if it’s a question or a statement.

“Yes.” His voice is unsettled. _Is she having second thoughts? Does she want to leave? Don’t go... please…_

“Do they have lakes on Raxus? Oceans? Ponds? Whatever...” she asks strangely, almost sounding manic.

“Um, I think so.” He seems to remember it being a somewhat water-based planet. “Why?”

“I want to learn how to swim.” Rey turns to him with eyes bright and thrilled. “I mean, I can thrash around and keep my head above water but, since we’re probably going to be there a while, I figure I can improve.” She smiles at him and he smiles back, enraptured by her giddiness, but her expression turns serious. “Are you sure the First Order won’t come after us there?”

“They have no jurisdiction in that system,” He reassures her, wanting her smile to return. “Raxus never reentered itself into the Galactic Republic after the Empire collapsed. I don’t even think they were a part of the Republic before the Emperor came into power. But they’ve kept to themselves for thirty-some-odd years; the Order, more than likely, doesn’t see anything of value on the planet.”

Rey nods, looking more sure of herself, and asks, “So you’ll teach me?”

“To swim?” 

“Yes,” she says kindly, but firm.

“Yes,” he echoes back. “Yes, I’ll teach you how to swim.” 

Ben can feel his ears heating up just thinking about all that could entail. And she must hear his thoughts or have similar ones of her own, because when she thanks him her voice comes out small and almost imperceptibly breathless.

“Do you want to start today?” Rey asks him, attempting to be casual but not quite selling it, a hint of eagerness slipping into her question.

“We can,” he says as their console alerts them to make preparations for coming out of hyperspace, a small smile pulling at his lips.

Rey stands from her seat at the gunnery station and peers out the viewport curiously, excitedly, as Ben drops the freighter into normal space. The earthy tones of Raxus glinting in her widened eyes as she murmurs something he doesn’t entirely hear but he thinks has to do with loving the color green. After another second or so of staring at the planet before them, Rey joins him in piloting the ship through the sparsely clouded atmosphere, pointing to places with bodies of water where they could land. Ben can just make out the skyline of a large city in the distance as they approach the ground; he flies them a little farther south, away from the surely crowded, metropolitan area. His apprehension flares at the thought of the civilization but he thinks of the planet’s lack of standing with the First Order to clear his head.

Eventually, they touch down in a crescent-shaped grove of green and orange leafed trees with a sizable pond resting within it; Ben estimates it to be around ninety-five or so kilometers south of the city he’d seen. _That’s close enough, for now,_ he thinks, content with the seclusion of the space they’ve found.

Rey looks out from the cockpit at the water rippling lightly in the breeze right in front of their ship. She smiles. “I haven’t seen water this beautiful since Takodana.” Her words are wistful, reminiscent. “Naboo was lovely, of course, but I don’t think I appreciated it with how on edge I was. But this—” She leans even closer to the viewport, looking even harder.

“Takodana...” He remembers that place. He wants to say ‘that’s where we first met’, but knows that doesn’t exactly describe what occurred on that planet all that accurately. Thankfully, she places a hand on his shoulder to stop him before running out the cockpit, down the corridor, and to the ramp, lowering it promptly. He can hear her feet pounding down the metal and into the grass and dirt, kicking up dust in her wake. Then he sees her through the viewport, shirking off her boots and running to the shallow water, curling her toes into the thin mudbank, her face tilted up towards the cloud-spotted sky. 

Ben thinks, watching her grin up at Raxus’ great, golden sun, that they might be okay. That they might never be found, that they could have a moment of peace here. A _life_ of peace here. That makes his palms sweat, not from nerves, but from wanting it so badly.

Ben has always chased after knowledge, or capability, or _power_ above all else. Devoted his life to acquiring them. Yet, Rey doesn’t seem to want any of those things. Knowledge, sure, but she doesn’t need ultimate knowledge of all things to make her way in the galaxy; She has herself and her abilities and that’s enough. He knows she wants to be capable, to improve herself, but she’s never put others down in order to reach new heights for herself, she’s selfless that way. And he’s never sensed her crave power like him. Rather, her confidence comes from a resolve within her, an appreciation for the smallness of life, a stillness. And she’d let him see that stillness, let him study her mind and see that he could have it, too, if he pursued it.

But he’s never had anything like that before. His childhood was turbulent in the least charming of ways and his adult life only managed to get worse. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he found that stillness. But he wants to know, he wants to know so, so badly.

Ben rises from the pilot’s seat, walking through their ship and into the open air of Raxus, taking each step as if passing through a threshold. Entering into a new galaxy of possibilities, of _peace_. 

He does it for her. Not because she expects it of him or wouldn’t accept him if he didn’t, but because he wants to please her. He wants her to know his efforts are for her and all the Light she’s shared with him. He’ll never be able to purge himself of the Dark — its roots too gnarled and deep to rip out completely — but something tells him Rey doesn’t need him to. She wants him to find balance within himself and, perhaps, with her as well. And that’s something he can try if it means she’ll smile for him, and be proud of him, and maybe, someday, even—

“So how do you wanna start?” Rey prods, turning towards him, stretching her hands up to the sky and then down to her toes in one fluid motion. Ben admires the curve of her lithe body before asking what she knows about swimming already, not expecting much considering where she grew up. She chuckles. “I know how not to die for a very limited amount of time. That’s it.” There isn't the slightest hint of embarrassment in her tone, she’s simply relaying to him the facts, ready to learn. 

“Well, why don’t I go out a ways,” he points to the center of the pond, trying to think of the best way to teach her something he, personally, hasn’t done in _years_. “Then you can swim to me so I can see what you know.”

“That’s not going to be a pretty sight.” She laughs self-deprecatingly but doesn’t seem opposed to the task.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he smirks at her and makes his way to the edge of the water, pulling his boots off in the process.

“Ha!” Her voice is harsh but he can feel her blushing. “I bet you are.”

It takes the cuffs of his pants hitting the cool water before Ben realizes he doesn’t want to swim in his clothes, especially not his pants which he has no spares of. So he goes about undressing, finding himself flustered yet again by the mundane task with Rey standing so near. What’s worse, is he can hear the rustle of her doing just the same behind him, fabric falling off her narrow body, running over her skin easily, softly—

_Calm down…_

He discards the remainder of his clothing, save for his underwear, — _I can just wear my pants while these dry, no problem...just the pants_ — and plunges himself into the water. It’s colder than he would have thought but it doesn’t particularly bother him, he’s always preferred cooler temperatures anyway. When he reaches the middle of the pond he turns to beckon Rey in but finds her already sloshing about in the water. _She wasn’t lying…_ It isn’t a pretty sight. Her expression resembles that of a Blurrg trying to lay an egg, while her arms flail above the water violently in something very far from a proper swim-stroke. But she’s pushing herself forward regardless and he can’t help but smile at her.

After another minute or two of her thrashing through the water, she reaches him and grasps at his arms fiercely, nails digging into his skin. “Told you,” she coughs beside his shoulder and gasps. She's taken her buns out and is lifting a hand to wipe the stray hairs out of her face and she’s—

“You’re naked!” Ben exclaims, averting his eyes, voice coming out more strained than he would have liked.

“I wasn’t about to get my underthings wet!” She looks genuinely offended by his surprise. “Those are the only ones I have! What’d you expect me to do?”

Ben opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, probably looking quite like a fish. When he doesn’t respond, she scoffs and shakes her head. “Just— Just teach me how to swim, all right?”

Rey turns away from him in the water, still gripping one of his arms, then folds in on herself, trying to cover her breasts. Ben clears his throat and debates apologizing to her, but smooths a shaking hand over her back instead and starts explaining. “You don’t want to be upright in the water when you swim. You’ll be more aerodynamic if you’re horizontal,” he says, motioning for her to straighten her legs out and back. “And your arms are important, too. I noticed you weren’t using your arms much on your way out here.” He touches her elbow lightly, prompting her to release the vice-like grip she has on her torso. “Start with them out in front of you,” he brings her arms forward, trying hard not to touch her too much, “and then push them back.” Doing so, she propels herself the slightest bit through the water, Ben’s hands leave her arms and return to his sides, but she must get water in her mouth or nose because she sputters suddenly and goes back to her unsteady, vertical position.

“You didn’t tell me—” She flails around to him, gasping. “That you were going—” He holds her shoulders, helping to keep her afloat. “To _let GO_!”

“Oh,” _Right…_ “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I won’t let go this time.” She scowls and returns to the form he’d shown her, but this time he places one hand on her stomach and one on her back, steadying her better than he had before and focusing on everything except the labored breathing he can feel through her abdomen. Or how warm her core is in the cool, cool water. Or the way her muscles stretch and flex with each clumsy stroke of her arms.

“Should I start kicking my legs?” she asks, out of breath. “I know I’m supposed to do that.”

Ben hums and she begins alternating the movements of her arms and legs, pushing herself through the water more efficiently, but still awkwardly. “You know more than you let on,” he mumbles at her, impressed despite himself.

“I can _know_ a lot of things,” she wriggles between his hands, releasing herself from his gentle grip and clasping his forearms again, “but that doesn’t mean I can _do_ them. You were holding on to me that whole time, anyway.” Her eyes rake over his face, his shoulders, his chest for the shortest of seconds — Ben notices all too easily, his cheeks reddening — before she continues, “I’m really bad at floating, that’s my problem, I think.”

“Hmm,” he chuckles, face still warm. “That might have something to do with it.”

“How do you do it?” Eagerness returns to her voice.

“Uh—” _How do I explain floating?... How do you even float?_ “Uh, keep air in your lungs.” _Real insightful…_

“Why don’t you just show me?” Rey suggests, something in her face telling him she’d read his thoughts. _Oh no…_ “I learn better by watching.”

“All right, uh—“ He tilts his body back in the water, holding an arm outstretched for her to cling to, and floats. 

She watches him with the eyes of a scholar — or, perhaps, something else, he can’t quite tell — studying the way he takes in breaths, the tilt of his head, how his arms and legs move just barely above the surface. Then she tries to mimic him. She doesn’t succeed at first, splashing him a few times in her novice attempts, but eventually, she finds somewhat of a balance and ‘floats’, too. Her arms and legs shift in the water more than they need to but she’s doing all right. Her fingers still grasp his wrist, unsure of herself; Ben doesn’t mind if that’s what helps in grounding her.

They float for a long time in silence, the sun making his skin prickle with the beginnings of a sunburn until Rey speaks, “When did you learn how to swim?”

That’s a tough one. “I don’t know.” She’s asking him to recall something from so long ago, a part of his life he’s been trying to erase for the last almost seven years. “I might have been three or four, I can’t really remember.”

“That’s young,” she murmurs, quiet astonishment in her voice. “Wait, how old are you now?”

He huffs, amused that they’ve run halfway across the galaxy together and don’t even know each other’s ages. “I’m twenty-nine.”

“Oh.” Her grip pulses tighter around his wrist, — nervously, he thinks — then loosens when she speaks again, “You’ve known how to swim for a whi—“

“How old are you?” he asks abruptly.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time, letting go of him and floating on her own, drifting away with the breeze. Her voice is near silent when she finally answers his question, “Nineteen.”

_Oh!_

Ben throws his head up to look at her and is glaringly reminded of her lack of clothing. “You’re nineteen?” he rasps, turning his eyes elsewhere. “I would have thought you were older.”

“And I would have thought you were younger,” she says, sinking her body back into the water and floating with her arms. Still appearing uncomfortable, but not letting it stop her, she pushes herself towards him with ungraceful strokes. “You don’t look twenty-nine.”

He’s not sure whether he should take that as a compliment or not, though her statement is not the most pressing thought in his mind. _I have ten years on her...ten years…_

_“I don’t care,”_ she sends to him, her expression unfaltering.

_Why wouldn’t she care— Why don’t you?_ He sends back, reaching out for her emotions, searching for uncertainty or unease, and he finds some. But he also finds enthusiasm, and curiosity, and... _arousal_.

“O— Oh…” he stutters, watching as Rey floats back to him, examining her indifferent countenance. _She doesn’t look aroused. Maybe that wasn’t—_

“Ben.” She pauses about a meter away from him. “Would you please stop overthinking _everything_?”

“I— I don’t—” _Why can’t I speak?_

“Ben.”

“Rey, you—” He runs a hand over his face, breathing heavily through his nose. She moves closer. “You’re nineteen. You’re ten years younger than me.”

“I don’t care,” she says again, bringing her hands to his shoulders and running them down his arms. “I don’t care.” Her lips, which seem to grow softer each time she kisses him, press into his sternum. “I don’t care.”

“Rey...” He tries to pull her away so he can look at her, talk to her, but she won’t budge. 

“You’re thinking,” she mumbles, tsking into his skin. “Stop it.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” He’s not angry, not yet, just exasperated. “I thought you wanted me to teach you how to swim.”

“I did.” She looks up at him with eyes wide and sparkling. “I _do_.” Her arms loop over his shoulders suddenly and she shoots out of the water, wrapping her long, warm legs tightly around his waist. With hands crawling into his hair, she arches her back and pulls him against her, sliding her bare chest over his languidly. “But I also want this,” she whispers breathily into his ear and Ben feels all the blood in his body rush southward. 

_Oh…_

Rey sucks wet bruises down his neck, squirming her hips against his stomach invitingly as Ben flexes the muscles in his legs, his abdomen, his arms, _anywhere_ to try and even out his blood flow, for her sake. “Stop that,” she orders softly, grasping his biceps and staring at him with obvious disappointment. “What are you doing?”

“Rey, I don’t have any—” Stars, he feels like such a twelve-year-old boy, blushing over a common word. “I don’t have any contraception.”

“Are you kidding me?” If she rolled her eyes any harder they’d disappear into her head. “You weren’t concerned about contraception when you woke me up a few hours ago! You were ready to go!”

“I didn’t know you were nineteen then!” _Why is that so hard to understand?_

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You don’t want to be pregnant at nineteen, do you?”

“I’m not going to get pregnant!” she shouts and rolls her hips against his as if to prove a point; Ben gasps through his teeth.

“How do you know that?” he mutters, hanging his head, trying to calm himself down.

Rey sighs heatedly and grabs his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Ben, I haven’t had a regular cycle since I got my first one.” Those words mean nothing to him but she continues like he understands. “As long as we’re careful, I’m not worried about it.”

He would be careful. He would be so, so careful. But what if he messed up? “Rey, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s such—”

She jams her mouth into his, _hard_. “It’s a good idea,” she hums against his lips and presses their chests even closer together. “It’s a very good idea.”

Ben tries to remain sensible, tries to only kiss her back lightly, and touch her skin sparingly. But he starts to feel woozy under her ministrations like there’s barely any blood left in his head, and he supposes, at the moment, there really isn’t. Rey must take notice of his strain because she lowers a tentative hand down between their bodies and runs a finger over him, releasing a sound from his throat he didn’t even know he could make. That only encourages her and she adds finger after finger, one by one until she’s palming him completely and he can’t _breathe_. 

His face falls into the crook of her neck and he can feel her smiling into his hair triumphantly. She’s beaten him. He can’t refuse her anymore and she knows it. 

“All right,” he sighs into her skin, struggling to form a simple sentence in his mind. “It’s a _very_ good idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A note? At the top _and_ bottom of a chapter? Why that's never happened before. Anyway...
> 
> Firstly: I apologize for the ending but we're getting there! ;)
> 
> Secondly: The next update will likely be a couple of days later than usual. I have some other 'things' to work on and won't have as much time to write per day.
> 
> Thirdly: Thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos! You're all so sweet and I really and truly take your kindness to heart! <3
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	6. More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey and Ben dive deeper (ha!) into the meaning of their bond.

Rey has never had cause to be uncomfortable with her body. Looks were of little importance on Jakku — the sun drying up youth and beauty faster than a bolt shot from a blaster — and even if they were, she doubts she would care much. Everything about her is efficient, and practical, and necessary; Her clothing, her hair, her supplies, _everything_. And wasting time worrying about the way her body compares to whomever else’s proves unhelpful in regard to that pragmatism.

But when Ben realized she hadn’t worn her underthings into the water, she began to worry; The assuredness that she’d always known dwindled away with each uneasy thought she had. Had he disliked what he’d seen of her? Was her chest too small? Her limbs too gangly? Did he find her body hair unsightly?

Self-consciousness weighed heavy on her mind, made her feel out of place in his presence, as vulnerable as she was. That is until she’d sensed his arousal through the bond, and how desperately he was trying _not_ to act on it. 

As for why, she couldn’t figure, but she knew she affected him, knew she had no reason to be anything but confident. She could tell by the way his breath hitched and his words stuttered. By the way he’d hardened under the press of her body, and the whisper of her lips, and the touch of her hand.

The power she felt, no, the power she _feels_ in making him react so vehemently to her is unlike anything she’s ever known. The only thing that comes close is what she’d experienced after besting him on _Starkiller_. That heat seeping into her bones. That lightspeed rush of blood through her veins. That unabated satisfaction of conquering something, conquering _someone_ , and needing more of it. 

_More, more, more..._

She needs more. More of his hands, dancing across her arms and shoulders, her spine and thighs, leaving little fires burning in their wake. More of his eyes, hooded and fluttering with every stroke of her skin against his. More of his lips, lush and warm, marking her red after each wet, lingering kiss. More of his hair, dark and thick and impossibly soft between her fingers. More of his body pressed solid and strong against her. Insistent, impatient, _needy_. She needs more of _him_.

“Ship,” Rey gasps into his mouth, clawing at the skin of his shoulders. “ _Now_.”

Ben hooks an arm around her middle and uses his other to swim, entirely unfazed by the added weight of her body as he all but glides through the water, hurtling towards the mudbank with abandon. Once on shore, Rey untangles herself from his torso and grabs his arms, tugging him to their ship, up the ramp, and through the quarters corridor, caring little of the sloughy footprints they leave on the way.

“We left our clothes out there,” he says as they reach their room, — _their room_ — his voice sounding rough and out of use.

“We can get them later.” Rey tugs at him again, drawing him closer. “It’s not like we need them, anyway.” If she had her way, they wouldn’t need them for a long, long time.

Ben chuckles quietly and picks her up by the waist, standing her atop the mattress of their bunk, he mutters, “You, especially, don’t need them.” Still below her on the floor, he runs his nose slowly, achingly, down the length of her abdomen and kisses just above her navel, then lets his tongue make the journey back up her stomach to the space between her breasts. _Oh..._ His hands clasp over her rib cage, holding her in place as he leans back and stares at her. Rey watches his eyes — dark and appreciative — roam over her body from head to toe, then return to her gaze. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your clothes just disappeared one of these days,” he teases and lays a hand over her stomach, fixating on the up-down motion of her breathing.

“What are you doing?” she asks, nonplussed but calm.

Ben smirks and lifts her up again, depositing her down onto the bed properly this time and crawling over top of her. He plants his forearms on either side of her head and kisses her lightly before answering, “Taking you in. I didn’t do a very good job of it while we were ‘swimming’.”

“Hmm,” Rey runs a finger over his chin, up his jaw, and to his temple, drawing her nails through his hairline delicately. He closes his eyes, sighing from his nose as she whispers, “Neither did I,” and sits up underneath him, nudging him with her right shoulder to do the same.

“Oh, the bacta patch...” He runs a knuckle over the mostly healed scar tissue on her arm, sitting up with her. “You took it off.”

“How observant of you,” she laughs. “I took it off before we got in the water.”

He laughs too, kissing the curiously shaped mark in her skin. “Like I said,” his face pulls back, amused and contented, “I didn’t get a good look.”

Rey smiles and cards a hand through his hair again, — relishing how openly he responds to the touch — then pushes his torso back so she can see _all_ of him. “Don’t. Move,” she orders warmly, allowing herself to admire him like she would a moonrise or a clear bed of water. To scrape her nails over the broad expanse of his chest, counting his beauty marks one by one as she goes. To place a hand above his heart and track the spread of blush across his pale skin. To trail her fingers down his sides and rest them at his hips, circling her thumbs over the bones there as she pulls his abdomen to her lips demandingly. To sprinkle kisses lower and lower on his skin, following the thin line of hair on his stomach all the way to the waistband of his undershorts.

“Rey—“ Ben gasps shakily, clenching his teeth and arching his hips towards her by a hair's breadth. “Can I move now?”

She takes one more good, long look at him and the almost pleading expression on his face before answering, “Yes.”

He’s kissing her faster than she can register, pinning her back down into the mattress and pushing his tongue past her lips, sliding it along hers hungrily. “Thank you,” he says, shifting his kisses down her neck, “thank you,” across her collarbones, “thank you,” and over her sternum. But he stops suddenly, a quiver of apprehension overtaking his brow when he tilts his head up and speaks. “Um...” He motions to her chest with a nod. “May I?”

“Continue kissing me?” Rey asks, perplexed, her mind only working at half-speed. _Why wouldn’t I want him to kiss me?_ “Yes,” She chuckles. “Yes, please.”

Ben makes the same little ‘o’ shape with his mouth that he’s made at least ten times in the few hours since they’ve been up. Rey still can’t tell if it’s from surprise, or excitement, or nerves, or, perhaps, a bit of all three. “Uh, Rey—“ His cheeks flush the most brilliant shade of pink she’s ever seen. “Do you know what I mean?”

_Is he not asking to kiss me?_

Rey focuses on the thread binding their minds, chasing it through his thoughts, trying to understand what he’s asking from her. In searching, she finds the effort it’s taking for him to stay still, to wait for her. She finds a fantastically predatory instinct building within him and is glad she’s not alone in that new propensity. She finds the way he experiences the feel of her body pressed against his and how much he enjoys her smallness compared to his not-so-smallness. She finds what he would like to do with her bre—

“Oh...” _That’s much different than kissing..._ “Ye— Yes, I do. Um, you— You may do that,” she manages to stutter out, only embarrassing herself a little. 

But that embarrassment soon turns into something else entirely when Ben smiles shyly and places a slow, heated kiss to her left breast. His lips dawdle around the soft flesh there, warming more blush into her skin, before he closes them around her nipple wetly.

_Oh!_ She throws a hand over her mouth to stifle a shout. 

Ben chuckles against her skin, forcing her to bite into her palm, covering up yet another indecent noise.

_“Don’t do that,”_ he says through the bond as he circles his tongue around her nipple languidly and _sucks_.

She moans. There’s nothing her hand can do to stop it.

_“Thank you.”_

His mouth preoccupied with her left breast, Ben brings a hand up to her right and coaxes the unattended nipple to attention with a scrape of his thumb. He creates a funny sort of rhythm that way, alternating between her breasts. Hand and mouth, mouth and hand, pinching and lapping and sucking and palming. 

It’s altogether too much and not enough, and Rey can only lie there with her hands on his shoulders and her head thrown back in bliss. And that strange, delicious, wet heat between her legs — which, if she‘s being honest, hasn’t really gone away since she woke up — clears and muddles her thoughts all at once. It makes her squirm.

“This is your first time,” Ben mumbles, nuzzling her right breast and kissing the underside of it. It’s not a question.

“Yes,” she tries, but her voice is gone.

“Hmm,” he rests his chin on the center of her sternum, eyelashes fluttering lazily and voice low. “Me too.”

Rey’s head snaps up. “What?” _How could this— How would he know what to— How did he—_ “But you’re—“

“Twenty-nine?” He smirks at her with swollen lips that steal a great deal of her concentration away from responding.

“Yes.”

Ben tilts his face back down into the valley of her breasts and huffs. “Celibacy was enforced in Skywalker’s Order,” he says into her flushed skin then scoots up her body, pressing his lips to hers gently. “And after I ‘left’, my opportunities to pursue this sort of thing were just as slim.” Rey doesn’t detect any sadness or regret in his eyes from the admission, but rather a flash of gratitude. _For me?_

He squints his eyes like he’s straining to see something, then smiles. “Yes, for you. I never thought I—“

“Would have somebody,” she finishes for him, smiling despite her brain counting the shortness of time they’ve spent together, running from away from responsibility and allegiances. Yet here they are, tangled up around each other and about to become _more so_ , no doubt, without the slightest bit of inhibition between them. It seems so fast: _one standard day_. But it also seems right, like they’ve been unwittingly searching for this connection all their lives and have finally, _finally_ found it. And she supposes that could very well be true; She just never thought it would be him. Never thought it would be anybody for that matter.

“You know,” Rey says as casually as she can manage, deciding she’s quite ready to continue _investigating_ the nature of their connection. “I can’t help feeling a little self-conscious lying here completely unclothed while you still have your underwear on.” She praises herself for not croaking or laughing at her own statement.

Ben’s mouth does that adorable little ‘o’ thing again as his ears burn red. “Oh,” he swallows thickly, “right. Sorry.” Pulling away from her, he goes to remove his last, nuisance bit of clothing, but Rey has an idea.

“Wait.” Her voice comes out higher than usual, foreign nervousness seizing her vocal cords. “Can I?” Her fingertips itch with excitement. And fear, of all things. She had touched him already, in the pond, the water making her bolder. But there’s no water shielding _her_ from _him_ now, and that’s as horrifying as it is thrilling.

“Uh—” He looks at her with pupils blown, his lower lip twitching, and his chest flushing. “Sure, yes, if you want.”

Ben lifts his hands away from his waistband and clenches them awkwardly at his sides, the whole of his body going stiff. Rey snickers at his rigidity and raises up on her forearms, quirking an eyebrow up at him. “Do you _not_ want me to take them off?” she questions amicably, letting him know he can refuse her request. 

“No, no you can,” he squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. “You can, just, um— You can.” When he opens his eyes again and looks at her, Rey sees sincerity despite the concern mingled there. 

She nods, both to Ben and herself; An encouragement as she sits up and hooks her fingers over the waistband of his undershorts and pulls, ridding him of the barrier between them, putting them on equal ground.

Rey has, of course, never seen a man’s cock in person. She knows what they look like for the most part and what they do, if only marginally, but the sight of Ben’s renders her speechless nonetheless. Well, mostly speechless: she lets out a stunted, “Oh…” before her jaw goes slack.

Something about the way it points right at her as if accusing her of waking it up makes her skin prickle and burn, makes her lower stomach coil, makes her wonder how she’s ever going to manage fitting it inside of her. But most of all, it makes her want to reach out and _touch_ it. 

She skirts her fingers over the underside of his shaft eagerly, surprised to find how soft the skin is there. More surprising though is the way every muscle in Ben’s body twitches at her touch, including his cock. “Is this all right?” she asks, running her palm over the head, gauging his reaction.

“Yes,” he whimpers, looking at her through heavy lids. She continues, tracing her fingertips over him at first, following his veins, then wrapping her hand _around_ him, stroking once from root to head experimentally. Ben gasps as his hand flies to the wall beside them and he groans through clenched teeth. “But...I— I’m not…” He removes himself from her grip and leans forward, resting his head beneath her chin shakily. “I won’t, um— I’m not going to last if you keep doing that though.”

“But I barely touched you,” she remarks into his hair disappointedly.

“I know, I know. I’ll—“ Rey can’t see his face but the inflection of his voice tells her he’s disappointed too. “I’ll get better at it…” he pauses, kissing her throat, “...with practice.”

Rey feels something inside of her _throb_ at those words. “Well,” she tugs his face up to hers, “I suppose we’d better get started then.”

Ben’s eyebrows raise excitedly despite the query that comes from his mouth. “You’re ready?”

_What kind of question is that?_ She scoffs. “Should I not be?” His eyebrows shoot higher somehow and he shifts back slightly, staring at her like she’s either brilliant or mad. “Ben, I’m ready,” she says, wiggling her hips, drawing his attention to the ever-growing slickness between her thighs. “I’m ready.”

“Oh…” He sighs, sucking on his bottom lip. The look that passes over his face can only be described as reverence, and that strikes Rey as every bit erotic as it is hilarious. She’s never seen him look at _anything_ the way he’s looking at her right now, or more specifically, at her dripping sex.

_Of all the things…_ She laughs to herself.

“All right, um—” Ben props himself up on his hands and angles himself closer to her hips. She spreads her legs a little more, widening his access. “You’ll let me know if I hurt you, right?” he asks with borderline panic, edging himself closer to her entrance.

She nods, trying not to think of the very real possibility that this _could_ hurt. But she feels so ready. So ready. Even if it does hurt, — she doesn’t think it will though, not with how wet she is right now — she wants this. It was her idea and she _wants_ it. “Yes,” she affirms, nodding again, wrapping her arms around his waist and drawing him closer.

Ben lets out a cool breath as he sinks forward into her embrace and she can _feel_ him. He’s not inside of her just yet, but he’s there, the tip of him barely prodding at her folds. “You promise you’ll tell me?” His voice wobbles as he suspends himself over her.

“I promise.” Rey fits as much earnesty into the statement as she can, assuring him with her tone that she will.

He huffs through his nose, seemingly satisfied with her response, and hunches forward to kiss her. 

It’s during this plush, and slow, and sweet kiss that he slips inside of her. Not by much, but enough for Rey to understand his trepidation prior to entering. 

It doesn’t hurt necessarily, having his cock inside of her, but that’s just the thing: She’s never had anything inside of her before him, apart from her own fingers on rare occasions. But her fingers are small. Ben is not. So the feeling is a strange one, like being stretched and pushed and pulled all at once, and it’s entirely foreign to her.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, and it’s only then that Rey notices his shoulders quaking. He looks to be in great pain, but she knows it’s just the opposite.

“Mhm, I’m all right,” she grunts, shimmying around the added warmth of him, trying to grow accustomed to it.

Ben gasps under his breath at her movements and pushes in a little deeper. _That_ does hurt. Enough to make her clench her eyes shut. But the pain is sharp and quick and soon subsides into nothing more than a dull ache in her walls. She can feel his eyes trained on her when she mumbles, “I’m okay, keep going,” not wanting him to worry.

“Rey...” His breath tickles over her nose as he kisses her forehead. His fingers thread through her tangling hair and he sinks more into her, gently and meticulously, but she still feels a twinge in her core. One that doesn’t go away as quickly as the last. “I’m almost there, I’m sorry, I’m almost there,” he whispers, kissing her hair soothingly.

He doesn’t move for a few moments, letting her adjust to his length, and Rey finds herself crying. Not from the pain but from how right it feels despite the pain. How right _he_ feels so close to her, like something in her subconscious is begging her not to let him go. _Not ever..._

Of course, he doesn’t register her tears that way.

“Oh! We can stop. We’ll stop, Rey, we’ll stop.” His voice is urgent but she knows he would rather do anything than stop. She can feel it in the shiver down his spine.

“No…” She plants a hand on his chest reassuringly, massaging his reddening skin. “I don’t want to stop.” Confusion takes over his features while resolve takes over hers. “I don’t want to stop, Ben.” He hesitates to continue still, so she grabs his face and crushes her mouth into his. Seething against his lips, she begs, “ _Don’t stop_ ” and he finally pushes all of the way inside her.

The bitter sting that shoots through the lower half of her body is, quite plainly, miserable, but it’s promptly overshadowed by the all-encompassing, utterly dulcet sensation of being _full_. It’s not pleasurable yet like she knows it can and _will_ be, but it's warming. Tingling from the center of her core and out, to her fingers and her toes, racing up her spine to the base of her skull. She feels alive, and buzzing, and _powerful_ ; The discomfort between her legs is nothing she can’t handle because she’s full and she’s full of _him_.

“Rey?” Ben’s shaking, his voice frightful and small, anxious to know if she’s all right, but she can’t speak. She can only stare at him in awe. At his caring eyes, and his full, trembling lips. At his callused hands caressing her arms placatingly. At his broad, shuddering body pressed so close to her, _inside_ her. 

_How are you real?_ She wonders, unaware of whether or not she sends the thought to him across the bond.

How could this man — so gentle and concerned for her wellbeing — be the same man who’d terrorized her less than a week ago? The only answer Rey can come up with is that, for all she knows, he isn’t. She’s unaware as to what could have changed enough for him to leave everything behind and run away with her. But she knows he didn’t turn, at least, not in the way she thought he would.

He’s Dark, she knows that. She knew it when she left with him, saw firsthand the resentment and hatred he siphons into power when he fired upon that hangar. Saw the way it fed and ate away at him all at once.

But he’s Light, too. She sees it grow every hour, blossoming in her presence, — small as it is — and she wants to preserve it. To hold it close to her chest and never let the galaxy’s cruelty touch it again.

“I want to keep you,” she mumbles, only half aware of the words coming out of her mouth.

“You want to keep me?” Ben asks with a nervous chuckle, still motionless within her, his brow sweating.

“Yes.” She cups his cheek, remembering how she’d done this in Snoke’s throne room, preparing to tell him what she wanted, — what she still wants — but he’d kissed her and she lost her nerve, skirting around the subject for the past day. And it’s been a day too long. “I want you, Ben.” He takes in a sharp breath at her words and she pauses, thinking of how best to phrase what needs to be said. “My vision of you, when we touched hands, it showed me what I thought was you turning back to the Light.”

“Rey—”

“But now I’m not so sure that’s what it was.” Ben makes to speak but she continues, “You were happy, Ben, just happy. Unburdened. And—” Rey can feel his heart hammering through her chest. “You were with me. I don’t know how I knew, but you were, and I saw you like that and I never wanted to see you any other way. I wanted you to have that happiness and I won’t stop wanting it, even if you never turn.”

Ben’s lips crash over hers in a harsh, desperate motion, and his hips buck into her minutely. She expects it to hurt, but it doesn’t. “Sorry, I didn't mean to, uh—” He draws back to look at her, the shame in his eyes giving way to something else. “Kriff, Rey, you can’t just tell me things like that and—“ She rolls her hips up against his, ignoring the pang in her walls from the sudden movement, and he clutches at her arms, using all his restraint not to buck into her again. “I’m trying to last, remember?” he groans through tight lips. 

She only chuckles. “I have faith in you.”

Determination sets Ben’s brow and he huffs. Taking a deep breath, he pulls out of her the slightest bit and slowly — never taking his eyes off hers — pushes back in. The split second of pain Rey experiences is short and might as well have never existed. And when Ben repeats the motion, she feels nothing but the gentle throb of his cock inside her. 

“You can go faster,” she whispers after a third, equally deliberate thrust. “I’m all right.”

“Okay.” A small smile plays at Ben’s lips before he ducks down and kisses her softly, his hips driving forward with more weight. He keeps a steady rhythm, concentration evident in the way his muscles tense, and Rey works to match him. Raising her hips into each painstaking movement he makes, raking down on the friction building in her core, urging him to push _more_.

“More…” she whines into his mouth, caught off guard by the neediness in her voice. “You can— You—” Her hands grasp at his sides, nails digging into his skin with the quickening cadence of their bodies, when a shock of pleasure jolts through Rey and she curses, unprepared for the sensation.

Ben takes notice of her reaction with dark eyes and deepens his thrusts, gripping her firmly by the waist. “Rey—” A dribble of sweat rolls from his temple and she wipes it away, watching his eyes shutter closed as his composure begins to slip. “ _Fuck_ …” He drops his head against her shoulder, rocking into her frame erratically and engulfing her in a wanton embrace. “You feel so _good_ …” he hisses in her ear.

Rey’s back arches, the low timbre of his voice vibrating down her spine, and she feels her walls clench at his words. 

He groans, pushing harder and harder and _harder_ , grabbing the backs of her thighs, pulling her closer than she already is. And somehow, it’s not enough. “More—” Her body shivers against his with need and she begs, “More...Ben, _please_ …”

And then he’s _slamming_ into her, hips brushing hips, his cock rubbing along her walls so fervently she cries out. A sickly sweet warmth blossoms in her core and she _needs_ him to find it. “More, more…” Her voice is gone but she mouths the word into his hair like a mantra, pleading.

He delivers, reaching for that little fire within her, stoking it with each movement of his body, until his pace stutters and so does he, “Rey, I— I have to pull out—“

She throws her head up so fast she dizzies herself. “What? Why?”

“I— I’m going to—“ His voice is brittle and his eyes are frantic as they rise to hers.

Somewhere in her clouded, over-stimulated mind, she remembers: _Contraception_.

_OH!_

She pulls off of him in two seconds flat and immediately regrets it. She feels so hollow without the steady, pulsing heat of him inside her. But her doleful frustration vanishes as quickly as it arrives because Ben raises up on his knees, takes himself in hand, and starts _pumping_ towards his release. Fascination gets the better of her as she watches his large hand at work: up and down, faster and faster and _faster_. His nose scrunches, his lips part, his hair sticks up and out every-which-way, and all Rey can think is that he looks strangely _beautiful_ unraveled like this. 

Ben gasps from the back of his throat and murmurs almost incoherently, “Where do—“ He takes a shuddering breath. “Where do you want me to come?”

She’s so distracted by the trembling sight of him that she nearly forgets to respond. But eventually, she pats her stomach lightly — not knowing where the inclination comes from — and lifts her chin at him, emboldened by his vulnerability.

When he reaches his release, — which frees a shuddering, gravelly moan from his lips that makes Rey‘s toes curl knowing she did that to him — his come spills over her abdomen, warm and thick and white, and she can’t help imagining, for whatever reason, what it would feel like _inside_ of her.

_Careful…_ She chides herself. _We agreed to be careful…_

Ben collapses forward, panting raggedly, — Rey thinks she hears a winded ‘sorry’ fall from his lips, but she can’t be sure — and catches himself on his forearms, taking care not to crush her under his weight. He holds himself there, with his chin above her sternum and his eyes lightly closed, for a long time. Long enough for Rey to push the hair out of his face and kiss his damp forehead. To stroke his quaking arms and count his freckles.

He finally moves though, tilting his head down and resting his cheek against her chest. His fingers trace up and down her sides idly, jaw working as he breathes a question into her skin, “Will you let me finish you?” 

Rey shifts her head up, confused, and finds his gaze intent on hers. “What?”

He pushes up on his arms, bringing his face level to her, his lips just barely brushing against hers when he repeats himself, “Will you let me finish you?” A satisfied smirk appears on his face as Rey gasps beneath him, comprehending his meaning.

A part of her, the part that’s still aching and _hot_ , wants nothing more than to cry out ‘YES’ and let him do whatever he wants to her, but she doesn’t. Instead, she asks, “What are you going to do?” not actually caring how he answers the question.

Chuckling, he reaches for a pillow on the bunk behind him. “Would you let me surprise you?” He raises a brow and removes the pillow cover, using it to wipe her stomach clean of his come, giving her time to consider her answer.

But she doesn’t really need to consider anything at all because everything he could do would surprise her and her answer is already ‘yes’ a thousand times over. Still, she feigns skepticism for the sake of her pride. “All right,” she says, trying her best to sound aloof but knowing beyond a doubt that she fails. “Surprise me.”

A sinful smile parts his lips and he surges forward, enveloping her mouth in his own, clasping his palms around her rib cage and _pressing_ her into the mattress. “My pleasure…” he purrs at her, then shifts back, skimming his nose across her skin from chin to navel.

Rey’s quite glad to be lying down because she can feel her knees turn to molten liquid at the smugness of his voice, but she takes a breath and fires a quip right back, “And mine too, hopefully.”

“Ha!” he laughs curtly against her stomach and dips his head, peppering kisses between her hip bones, and something in her core suddenly feels very, _very_ taut. “Do you trust me?” he asks, peeking at her through his lashes as his lips travel lower.

_I ran halfway across the galaxy with you, didn’t I?_ she wants to say, but talking just seems too much of an effort, so she only nods.

For a moment, neither of them moves, the room silent apart from their quiet, metered breaths.

Until Ben’s lips ghost over the flesh of her inner thigh and she hums, that little fire in her belly alive and remembered. His kisses are small at first, just enough to make her toes tingle. But when he nips at her skin, teeth scraping gently against the juncture between her thigh and pelvis, a wave of wet heat burns through Rey and she yelps in, perhaps, the most unattractive way possible. She blushes, hopelessly embarrassed.

“I like the noises you make,” he says casually like his head isn’t buried between her legs, or his hands clutching at the undersides of her thighs, or his mouth working closer and closer towards—

“ _OH_!” she shouts as his soft, soft lips slant over her sex, sending sparks of lightning out into her veins from just the whisper of their touch. She suddenly needs something to hold onto and her hands can’t decide between his hair or the sheets, so she picks both.

Ben groans against her folds as her fingers tangle into his hair roughly, begging him wordlessly to _keep going_.

And he does, crushing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses against her sex, slipping his tongue past her entrance and curling it in and out of her. She writhes against him, arching her hips into his face needily because she _can’t help it_. 

With each slick, sweet movement of his mouth, the flame in her core grows, scorching her from the inside out, like she’s swallowed a star, caring none that it’s burning her alive.

She's convinced nothing in the galaxy could feel _this_ good, but Ben had promised to surprise her.

And surprise her he does when his tongue flicks out of her folds deftly and finds her clit, lapping at the sensitive mound with the care one would give to a great interest or passion.

Rey _keens_ and bucks against his mouth, gripping his hair so fiercely she fears she might rip some out.

The fire is no longer inside her body, the fire _is_ her body, and she can’t breathe from the rolling heat of it. She doesn’t know how much more of his burning mouth’s sweet attention she'll be able to take, bones turning to ash as her fingers and toes clench in exquisite agony. 

But amidst her flames, a cool, buzzing sensation settles at the back of her neck and Ben’s voice echoes through the bond with just two small words, _“Let go…”_ and she loses herself to the blaze.

Rey doesn’t know if she screams or cries or does anything at all because she can’t feel her body. She’s a star being born in a galaxy far, far away with nothing to worry about except shining. She has her own gravity and wants to pull everything towards her, wants to wrap her star system around her and listen to him whisper in her ear until her core burns out and she falls back into her body.

“Rey—” Ben murmurs against her cheek, dancing kisses all over her face through her aftershocks. “Rey, you look—” His eyes shift between hers helplessly, trying to find his words. “You don’t even look human…”

The half of her that’s still floating through the stars thinks, _I’m not…_ , but she has enough of her wits back to utter a shy, “Thank you” as she beams at him, placing a trembling hand along his face. 

Next thing she knows, he’s gathering her into his arms ardently and laying them down on their sides, tucking her head beneath his chin. He strokes shapeless patterns up and down her back lazily. “You were right,” he says into her hair, amused. “That was a good idea.”

She giggles against his chest, still feeling the slightest bit lightheaded from the thrill of it all.

They stay wrapped up in each other — delighting in the cathartic thrum of their bond — for who knows how long. Minutes? Hours? Rey doesn’t care. Her head rests near the steady beat of his heart and she’d be content to keep it there for days on end if he’d let her. The sound of it assuring her of his realness, that he’s flesh and blood, that he’s here and he’s _with her_. Her somebody.

“You’d found belonging,” Ben whispers out of the blue, pressing closer to her.

She hasn’t the foggiest idea what he’s talking about but she feels too good to let confusion seep into her mind. “What?”

“In my vision, when we…” He brings a hand in between their chests and rests his fingertips against hers serenely, mimicking the way their hands had touched across lightyears. “You found where you belonged. You weren’t alone anymore.”

“Oh…” She turns her hand, interlocking their fingers. “And you were with me?”

Ben’s eyes comb over her face as his chin squirms. He swallows shallowly before answering with a hushed, “Yes.”

Rey lets that stew in her thoughts for a moment, trying to decipher any hidden meaning disguised in the glaringly obvious truth of their visions. “Had I turned?” she asks quietly. “In your vision, had I turned to the Dark?”

“No, I—” He scrunches his nose and tilts up his chin, thinking. “I don’t know. You were just with me.”

“Hmm...” She brings their entwined hands up to her lips and kisses the backs of his knuckles. “Are you happy, Ben, right now?” she whispers, thinking of how euphorically he’d glowed in her vision.

His eyebrows twitch upward and his lips part. “Yes,” he answers firmly. Then asks, seeming to understand what she’s getting at, “Do you feel like you belong?” His voice tremors and he adds a low, “With me?” to the end of his question imploringly.

“I do,” she says without hesitation.

Ben closes his eyes in relief and sighs from his nose. “So, what the Force showed us...we were both right?” His eyes meet hers, baffled, with the first few glints of realization twinkling there.

Rey smiles and kisses his hand again. “I don’t think it’s too far of a stretch.”


	7. Muscle Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben is reminded of his childhood. Finn has a plan, but so does Leia.

Hearing that all Rey wants out of Ben is, well, _Ben_ breaks something inside of him.

Not in the way that glass shatters, brittle and quick and insignificant. But rather like a cracking dam, where her Light settles into his weakest points and chips away, bit by bit, until he can’t withstand it anymore. Until he’s bursting at the seams, overflowing with devotion for this girl who sees good in him despite all his attempts to squelch it. Who sees his Darkness too and doesn’t disregard it, searching for that somewhere in between she knows is within him.

And what’s more, he _wants_ her to find it. So she can have something of him that’s new and unsullied, not the scraps left behind by everyone who’s ever torn away at him, but something that’s hers and hers alone.

_Yes…_ he thinks, watching her eyes study him peacefully. _I want that more than anything…_

They hadn’t fallen asleep after their little _excursion_ , too alive with connection to succumb to tiredness. So they stayed as they were, twisted around each other, admiring the bond flowing freely between them.

It should make him uncomfortable, to be looked at so reverently. But it doesn’t. Because he knows he’s looking at her in just the same way. Memorizing the soft curve of her lips. And the freckles smattered across her nose. And the way that her eyes never seem to stay the same color, brown and green and gold and grey.

He knows now what Rey was feeling when she asked to keep him: Understanding, acceptance, _intimacy_.

_How have I lived my whole life without this?_

Though he knows if he’d had those things before Rey, it wouldn’t _be this_. It would be hollow, a shadowy reflection of all that he could have had with her.

_But I do have this…_ He runs a knuckle over her cheekbone and she smiles, perhaps listening in on his thoughts. Then her brow furrows and her mouth tweaks, shoulders twitching with agitation.

“What is it?” he asks, afraid he’s bothered her inadvertently.

“Oh…” She sighs lamentably and rolls her eyes. “I need to use the ‘fresher.” 

_Ah…_ Ben chuckles, relieved he hadn’t done something wrong, and shifts over so she can get out of the bunk. But she winces as she turns away from him, and again as she sits up, and _again_ as she leans forward to stand but...can’t. “Are you all ri—“ He stops himself, reaching out to place a hand on her back and realizing exactly what the issue is. _She’s sore…_ Pinching his eyes shut, he apologizes, small and embarrassed.

“Don’t do that.” She sags into the mattress a bit and rests a hand on his knee, gaze lifting to his as she mumbles, “I wanted this”, a soft blush painting her cheeks.

Ben doesn’t know how to respond to that at first, thinking of how her body had hummed against his, golden and sweating and _strong_. How she’d whimpered in his ear and tugged at his hair. How she’d careened into his embrace as she came, shivering and glowing and ethereal. How she’d felt so good _everywhere_. 

His cock twitches and he lets out a meager, “Me too”, embarrassment spiking again.

Rey smirks at him, eyes traveling down his body appreciatively. “I can see that.” Snickering, she moves in to kiss him but grimaces and stops, shifting back to the edge of the bunk. “Ouch…” she mutters to herself then tries to stand again. And fails. _Again_.

Ben scoots up next to her swiftly, brushing the hair off her shoulder and kissing her cheek, her skin warm beneath his lips. “Would you like me to carry you?” he asks, the inflection of his voice fluctuating between genuine and teasing.

She snorts a laugh at him, glaring at the floor with conviction. “I think I can manage. I just need a second.” Then she attempts raising herself up carefully, painstakingly, only to plop back down in frustration. “Okay, maybe more than a second.”

Swallowing his laughter, Ben tucks an arm around her waist — recording to memory the way her skin prickles at his touch — and brings his lips to her ear, murmuring slowly, “I wouldn’t mind if you wanted me to.” She shudders against him and he smiles into her hair, quite satisfied with himself.

“Oooh, I know you wouldn’t,” she hums curtly, unhooking his arm from around her and kissing his shoulder. “But I would prefer to relearn how to walk by myself.”

“Hmm...” He runs the backs of his fingers up and down her arm languidly, purposefully trying to make her hairs stand on end. “But you don’t have to.”

Rey quirks a brow up at him, the corners of her mouth twitching. And then, for no reason other than to spite him, she stands. It’s awkward and stiff and she curses through her teeth, but she stands nonetheless. Then turning to him, eyes aflame and challenging and locked onto his, she whispers gloatingly, “But I _can_.”

His breath stutters and his fingers fidget. The urge to reach out and pull her back into him, to hold her hips and kiss her senseless rushes through his body at the bare sight of her before him. But he stays still, smirking up at her instead and nodding. “But you can.”

Huffing contentedly, she turns to the door and takes a step. Then another, and another and another, and if Ben’s being honest she’s waddling more than she is walking. Yet, onward she goes, stubbornly unfazed by her cumbrous gait. Ben chuckles to himself. _She really doesn’t let anything stop her…_

He lets that thought float about in his head, thinking of how easily she’d convinced him to run away with her. Granted, he’d already made up his mind that he wanted her by his side, but the way she wanted him — the way she _wants_ him — is entirely different than what he would have expected. 

Happiness, of all things. The concept of being even remotely happy rarely, if ever, crossed his mind. 

_Until Rey..._

Rey and her patience. Her blind faith and affinity for finding the value in broken things.

And to think that he lives in a galaxy where she found _him_ , the wretched, broken thing that he is, and went to work mending without ever being asked to. She simply _wanted_ to, unable to stop herself. Because, and he can’t figure why, she saw something in him worth fixing, worth putting her time into, worth giving up everything she had to _help him_.

_I don’t deserve you…_ he thinks, falling back onto the bed with his face in his hands.

_“What?”_ her voice rings sharply through his mind, sounding entirely offended.

Ben pitches forward with eyes wide, completely unaware he’d sent that thought through the bond. _Nothing…_ he answers her frantically, ashamed of himself for opening his mind so flippantly. 

She doesn’t respond though, instead, he hears the ‘fresher door slide open and her careful footsteps start down the corridor. He briefly contemplates getting up to help her, but she’d refuse him again in all likelihood. So he waits, spine rigid, for her to make her way through their crew cabin’s door.

Eventually, with somewhat less resistant strides, Rey walks into the room, a quizzical look on her face. 

He expects her to badger him about his thoughts, to admonish him for dwelling on something they’ve been over already, but she doesn’t. Not even bringing it up as she moves towards him gradually, carefully as though he’d run from her if she moved too fast. He wouldn’t.

Stopping in front of him, she nudges his knees open with her own and stands between his thighs, a hand coming up to his chin, tilting his gaze to hers. Something provoked flashes in her eyes as she bends down to kiss him slowly, taking her time. And when their lips meet, she doesn’t slip her tongue into his mouth, or tilt her head, or even move at all; she simply holds his face, breathing her breath into his lungs, making his very blood sing with the connection.

Ben rests his hands on her hips, anchoring her to himself as he pulls them back onto the mattress gently. Rey falls against his chest, grinning softly into their kiss as she murmurs, “You deserve me,” and tucks her arms underneath his. “I wouldn’t have asked you to leave with me if I didn’t think so.”

There are several reasons he could give her for why he, in fact, does _not_ deserve her but he voices none of them. Only asking her why incredulously, to which she responds with a firm, “Because I said so,” that makes him chuckle despite himself.

“I suppose you won’t let me argue with that?” he queries pleasantly, already knowing what her answer will be.

“No.” She leans forward and kisses his chin quickly, an impish glint in her eyes. “I’m afraid it’s the law.”

He laughs in full at that. “And where, exactly, must I abide by this law?”

“Anywhere that we’re together,” she says immediately, probably deciding on the spot.

“I see.” Ben circles his fingers up and down her back idly, smiling at her as an idea comes to him, “Do I get ‘because I said so’ privileges as well?”

Sighing dramatically, Rey thinks on his request with mock severity. “All right, I guess you can, but we’re not allowed to undo each other’s ‘because I said so’s’, understood?”

“Understood,” he replies back with equally faked seriousness.

She smiles and lays her head on his chest, humming thoughtfully, her finger following the scar she gave him on _Starkiller_ from neck to shoulder. “Are you going to explain why you don’t think you deserve me?” she asks abruptly, expectantly.

Ben can feel his lungs constrict at her question, so he focuses on the steady rhythm of her breathing to clear his head, trying to arrange his thoughts before answering her. “I’m not—” He contemplates telling her no one in his life has ever wanted him, that he’s not worth her kindness and hope and… _No, that wouldn’t go over well…_ “I let people down, I’m never what they want or expect me to be,” he settles upon finally, looking down at her sharp expression.

“Hmm...” She tightens her hold around him, and Ben’s stomach flutters. “Well, I don’t expect you to be anything but _you_ , so you can’t let me down.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s how it works,” he says, trying to tamp down the boyish glee rising in his chest from her admission.

“It is.” Lifting her head, she mouths along his jaw up to his ear and whispers slowly, “Because I said so…” A shiver trickles down his spine and his hands clasp hard over her hips. She sighs into his neck, fingers finding his hair and tugging his face to her own. 

This time, Ben doesn’t let her kiss him softly. Grabbing the back of her head, he arches into her kiss, pushing his tongue past her lips and tangling it around hers roughly. 

She gasps into his mouth, catching fistfuls of his hair, pulling him closer to her. As close as she can get. Hungry for the buzz of his body against hers

Ben’s hands grip around her waist and he pushes her up his torso, pressing his growing arousal against the inside of her thigh, reveling in the way she moans at the touch. He rubs himself along her as she pants softly, releasing his lips to kiss down his neck, sucking glistening, red welts into his skin.

Her chest slides against his, and her nails scrape across his shoulders, and her leg hitches over his hip, and...she stops.

“Ow…” Rey seethes, rolling off of him and placing a hand atop her lower abdomen.

_Right…sore…_ Letting a breath out of his nose, he shakes his head, calming himself down. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, shifting onto his side and tracing a knuckle down her arm.

“It’s not your fault,” she hums, looking at him with kind eyes until realization flashes across her face and she laughs. “Well, it is. But I asked for it so it’s mine, too, technically.”

“A team effort,” Ben mumbles and kisses her shoulder lightly.

“Precisely…” she sighs, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him into her side, her fingers curling through his hair lazily.

He stays tucked against her — warm, head resting beneath her chin — for a long time, his hand pressed lightly atop her stomach as if he could alleviate her pain with the simplest touch. And all the while she plays with his hair, smoothing it back, twirling locks around her fingers, scratching her nails across his scalp. He never wants her to stop. But she chuckles suddenly and he looks up at her, curious.

His neck tingles and an image passes from her mind to his: Rey working over his hunched form, drawing her fingers through his hair, pulling it back into three small buns just like her own.

He laughs. “I’ll let you as long as I get to do yours.”

She chuckles nervously, “What?”

“Your hair.” Sitting up, he brushes a few strands out of her face and continues, “I’ll let you do mine if you let me do yours.”

“Why?”

Ben debates flubbing an explanation. Telling her that he just thinks she has pretty hair, which he does, or that it’s only an excuse to touch her, which could also be true. But he doesn’t want to lie to her, especially when she can just look into his mind anyway to find her answer. So there’s really no point in being dishonest. “Leia used to have me do her hair,” he admits softly, recalling small, chubby fingers working through long, dark hair. Braiding and tying and looping to the best of their ability.

“Oh.” Something sad fills Rey's eyes but she smiles at him regardless. He has to look away, acutely self-conscious all of a sudden.

“I wasn’t the greatest at it,” Ben feels his ears heating up under her gentle gaze, “but I enjoyed it, and I still remember some of what she taught me.” 

Rey studies him for a moment, eyes scanning over his features like she’s looking for something specific on his face until a hushed, “Okay…” parts her lips and she grins excitedly at him. “Okay, turn around.”

Ben does and she raises up on her knees behind him, brushing his hair out with sure and practiced fingers. “Your hair isn’t as long as mine so you might only get two buns, but I’ll try my best.” 

Smiling to himself, he closes his eyes and lets her work, skin prickling at his nape. “Whatever you say.” She pulls at his hair gently, tucking strands back and over and under, her fingertips glancing across his shoulders and cheeks every once in a while, lingering on his skin a second or two longer than necessary. 

When she finishes, her touch draws down his neck between his shoulder blades and rests there. “All right,” she giggles vaguely and scratches his back, which he could get used to _very_ quickly, “I’m done!”

She drops down onto the bunk and hooks her arms around his middle, legs caging his hips from behind. “Am I allowed to inspect your work?” he murmurs, leaning back into her chest and kissing her jaw.

“Not yet.” Her face pulls away from his and she smirks. “You’re doing me first.”

“Oh, am I?” He twists around in her arms, quirking a brow and trailing a finger down her side.

She rolls her eyes, groaning, “You know what I mean” and shoves him lightly, a laugh tempting her lips.

“Mhm...” Kissing the crown of her head, he nudges her shoulders, prompting her to turn around.

Shifting on the mattress, she asks, “What are you going to do?” Her head tilting back against his stomach as she peers at him upside down, bubbling anticipation evident on every inch of her expression.

“I’m not sure yet.” He smiles down at her — committing the delighted look on her face to memory — and rolls a lock of her hair between his fingers. “Any ideas?”

“Maybe something that keeps it out of my face...” She thinks for a moment. “It gets tangled easily, so maybe not down either.”

“Hmm, I like your hair down.” Ben combs a hand through her tresses, smoothing it around her shoulders. “It makes you look _unrestrained_.” 

Through the bond, he can feel blush spreading across her cheeks, making her stomach flip endearingly as she whispers a half-coy, “Thank you...” 

Ben studies the back of her head for a long time, trying to visualize what he could make of her hair. It’s not nearly as long as his mother’s was all those years ago, but it’s long enough to attempt something elaborate. “Dip your chin, I think I know what I’m going to do.” Rey lowers her head and he portions out a sizable chunk of the hair from just above her nape and tucks it over her shoulder. “Hold onto that,” he orders distractedly and she chuckles, grabbing the handful from him as he runs his fingers from the crown of her head to her neck, gingerly parting her locks into five sections. He pulls a few strands from the hair she’s holding and begins wrapping them around the first section tightly, careful to keep his twists smooth the farther down he goes.

Muscle memory takes over as he repeats the meticulous motion four more times, matching each section with the first, remembering the last time he’d worked through this hairstyle. How his mother had cocked her brow when he told her he’d come up with something new for her. How she’d sat patiently, letting his fingers fumble through her tresses as he strived to perfect his craft. How she’d beamed at him when he finished, observing his work and telling him what a magnificent imagination he had. Unlike any in the galaxy.

“Done,” he announces, removing his hands from Rey’s hair and running them down her arms.

“Took you long enough…” She all but jumps out of the bed, but is promptly reminded of her inflammation predicament and moves a tad slower, though not letting it halt her enthusiasm. “This had better be a masterpiece!” she teases, tugging him off the mattress and out the door towards the ‘fresher.

“Likewise,” Ben snickers, feeling along the back of his now bunned head.

“Oooh…” She winces, turning to him as they walk through the threshold. “Yeah, probably not on my part. Your hair wasn’t _quite_ long enough to make full buns.”

He’s about to tell her not to worry about it, but glimpses his reflection in the mirror and finds himself quite incapable of suppressing his laughter. It’s not that his hair looks bad necessarily, it’s just that he was wholly unprepared for the sight of three shabby tufts protruding from the back of his head precariously. And the way they make his absurdly large ears appear _even larger_. 

Rey glares at him exasperatedly and he silences himself on the spot, having to pinch his mouth shut to stifle his amusement. 

Strands of hair fall out of the first bun around his temple and similarly at his nape from the last. He attempts slicking them back but they pop back forward again. “Hold on,” she mutters, circling behind him and standing on her tiptoes, undoing the second and third buns, brushing out the tangles. “There, better.”

With most of his hair falling freely again, — and his reflection now far less ridiculous — Ben smirks down at Rey. “Your turn…”

Pivoting her around, he knows she won’t be able to see much of anything in the mirror, so he looks long and hard at his finished work, focusing on transferring what he’s seeing to her.

Placing an image into someone’s mind proves rather different than placing a thought; More effort involved in making sure it’s received accurately, he finds. And it proves _vastly_ different than pulling thoughts _out_. But he must manage all right enough because she gasps sharply and whirls around to look at him.

“What the hell!” she shouts, coaxing a shy, but pleased smile out of him. “How did you—“ Her hand flies to the five coils running vertically down her neck, fingers sifting through the loose hair flowing out from below them, dancing over his work delicately. “How the hell did you do this?

He shrugs, admiring the sweep of her hair as she continues examining the style with wide eyes and fidgeting fingers. “Years of practice.”

Rey flinches almost imperceptibly at those words, — _What’s that about?_ — but her impressed expression returns ten-fold soon after. “You’ll have to teach me how to do this,” she hums, turning back to the mirror, presumably to further inspect his craftsmanship, but she stops and stares at him instead. Her eyes filled with a lonely type of wonder.

“What?” he asks softly, speaking to her reflection.

Her gaze falls to the sink basin slowly as her head ticks to the side. “Sometimes I can't believe that you’re real, that you came with me,” her voice barely whispers. “I feel like I dreamt all of this, or— I don’t know— I don’t know how to explain it.”

“It does feel a little like a dream,” he assures her, shifting closer. He can hardly comprehend it was just _one day ago_ that they were escaping off of the _Supremacy_ and opening the door to something _new_. What he can comprehend though, is that his entire life would have been a waste if he’d never left with Rey, never found this bond. He’s remembering himself again and it’s because of her, _for_ her. “But a _good_ dream.”

She smiles contentedly as he steps up behind her, his fingertips flickering across her arms as she watches their reflections with infectious curiosity. Eyes lighting over their bare bodies as if she’d discovered the secrets of the Force resting between them. Then she laughs abruptly, darkly. “If this were a dream, I don’t think my entire pelvis would ache every time I lift my legs too high, though.”

“Hmm...” He chuckles and leans down to kiss just above her collarbone. “Tell me when that goes away, all right? It’s starting to get on my nerves.”

“Oh, you will be the first to know,” she snorts, something devilish bleeding into her tone as she turns to face him with a smirk, hands coming up to rest on his sides. “But I think I’d better be on top next time. Just to be careful.”

He takes a shallow breath and…he’s hard. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. She didn’t even have to touch him. 

_Damn this girl…_

A look of satisfaction passes over her face as she eyes him from head to toe, her fingers twitching and her chest reddening. She cants her body towards his and kisses his sternum, whispering into his skin, “What do you want me to do?”

_Oh…this girl…_

“Um—” He tries to organize his words, tries to form coherent sentences until he remembers her particular talent for robbing him of his speech and sighs. But she must read his thoughts, because a greedy spark flashes in her eyes and she grins, raising up on her tiptoes to kiss him. One hand cupping his cheek while the other wraps around his cock and strokes lightly.

He groans against her lips, leaning down into her, afraid he might collapse if he doesn’t find a way to support himself soon. And her fingers run along him tighter, warm, palm glancing over his head every few strokes, making the whole of his body spasm at her touch. 

“This okay?” Rey breathes as she quickens her pace, backing them into the sink basin.

Mouth slack, he nods and loops his arms around her middle, lifting her up onto the counter gingerly so he can press his chest level with hers, desperate for every inch of contact he can get. “It’s a good thing you’re so tall,” she snickers, arching her wrist and pumping faster. “I wouldn’t be able to reach you from up here if you weren’t.”

He huffs, grasping her waist and resting his forehead against hers. “That _is_ a good thing, then.” 

She laughs and her hand glances over a particularly sensitive spot that makes his chest heave and his legs quiver. Burying his face in her shoulder, he attempts to speak through his stuttering breaths but can’t quite get anything out. “That— Don’t st— Don’t—”

Her voice is as soft as it is titillating, “Tell me what you want, Ben.”

_Ohhh...This girl…This girl…This girl!!!_

“Don’t stop.” He shakes his head into the crook of her neck, brain feeling like it’s been shut off but for all the right reasons. “Just don’t stop, _please_ …”

She smiles against his ear, crooning softly, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” And then she shifts angles, applying more pressure to the underside of his shaft, heating his lower stomach to the boiling point, and he… _growls?_

“Oh!” Rey’s free hand grips roughly around his bicep as she shivers against him, yet her rhythm never falters. In fact, she goes _faster_. Raking her hand over him zealously, drawing out an assortment of strangled noises from the back of his throat as she goes.

And with each movement of her warm, deft fingers, Ben begins to shake. It starts in his hands, — near unnoticeable in its smallness — but eventually works it’s way up his arms to his shoulders, down his spine, and into his legs until his entire body is vibrating. All in response to _her_.

The only solid sensation he can register is the coiling heat in his stomach and how suddenly out of control of himself he feels because of it. 

“Rey…” he whimpers, not knowing why he says her name. Perhaps only to hear it, or to fill the air with its sweet sound. But she takes it as a plea for _more_. So she scoots closer, kissing his hair and wrapping her other palm around him.

He bucks into her hands. The blood in his ears rushing and his skin burning.

_This girl…_

He tries to hold on as long as he can. Tries to control his breathing and lower his heart rate, but she’s _unrelenting_. Pumping him with unnatural and enthusiastic expertise. Gathering him closer and closer against her chest as she hums low, encouraging words in his ear. Letting her Light flow between them until it’s _too much_ and he can’t hold on any longer.

He moans into her skin, wave after wave of his release pouring over him with rushing intensity. It almost feels like falling.

That is until he realizes he actually _is_ falling forward. Crushing Rey against the countertop and mirror, freeing a startled yelp from her lungs. “Sorry,” he mutters, lifting his quaking, uncooperative body off of her as she practically cackles beneath him, clasping her hands behind his back and raising herself up at the same time.

He has to stand there for a moment, catching his breath and allowing the all too enticing drowsiness of post-release to run it’s course before his thoughts start to come back to him. And all the while Rey rubs his back, a cocky smile playing on her lips as if she’d just accomplished a great feat.

And it occurs to him that, to her, she very well could have. He blushes.

“I like the way you look when you come,” she says, smoothing the hair at his temples and he blushes _harder_. Chuckling, she looks down at her stomach and continues, “But you leave quite a mess.”

He looks down too, and… _Oh….Right…_ The tops of her thighs and most of her abdomen are splattered with his spend; The sight pleases him far more than it should.

“Towels might be a good investment,” she tucks a finger under his chin and tilts his gaze back to hers, “once we go to that city we saw when we flew in.” _The city…_ He’d almost forgotten all about it. “We’ll be out of rations in a couple of days, too, and I know I bought shirts but we’ll need new clothes as well if we’re going to try and blend in. And...” her thumb runs along his bottom lip leisurely, “ _contraception_ is top priority.”

“Hmm, _top_ priority,” he murmurs and kisses her fingers, locking away the anxiousness that flares in the back of his mind at the prospect of showing their faces in such a populated area. They’ll want to be careful, regardless of the planet’s lack of standing with the First Order. “When do you want to go?”

“I guess after the food runs out.” She shrugs, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and smiling.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says, smiling right back.

**————————**

“So let me get this straight,” Rose ‘harrumphs’, repositioning her arm around Finn’s shoulder as he helps her hobble down the corridor to the _Falcon’s_ ‘fresher. “I have head trauma from you crashing our shuttle into that weird Rebel base on that weird, salty planet,” she places a hand on his chest so he’ll look at her, “which I totally forgive you for because we were in a rush. But you still want me to go on a rescue mission with you to save your maybe-wizard friend from certain doom even though I can’t see anything without my vision going all fuzzy on the edges?”

“Uh...” Finn has to blink once or twice before all of the words that just flew out her mouth process in his brain. “Yes! And no.”

Curiosity floods her expression.

“I don’t think your coming along would be best considering you can barely walk.” She chuckles darkly, mildly annoyed by his bluntness. “But I _do_ think you can help here, running communications, keeping me — _us_ if Poe and a couple of others agree to go— updated on what’s happening, both with the Resistance _and_ the First Order while we look for Rey.”

Rose considers his words as they reach the ‘fresher, unhooking herself from him, she shuffles forward, stopping in the doorframe. “What does the General think about this?”

_Damn...should have known she would ask that..._

“The General doesn’t understand...”

She barks a laugh at him. “Are you serious? General Organa is, like, one of the smartest people in the galaxy! What do you mean she doesn’t understand?”

“She doesn’t believe Rey’s in danger.” His blood boils at the thought. “She saw the same holo of Rey with Ren that Poe and Connix and I did, and said she thought Rey was with him on _purpose_! On purpose, Rose! Nobody in their right mind would do that!”

She appears taken aback by his little outburst but her voice is placid when she speaks, agreeing with him, “That does seem strange.”

It’s beyond strange, it’s absurd. Yet Leia’s words still weigh heavy on his mind: _“...we never know anyone as well as we think we do...”_

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

“Do you think Poe will help?” Rose asks, gears almost visibly turning in her head.

“I haven’t asked him yet.” Finn leans back on the wall opposite her, trying to figure out how he’s going to manage asking his friend to disobey Leia’s orders _again_. “He’s in a meeting with the General right now. I’ll see if I can talk to him after, but she’s probably swayed him to her side already.”

Poe already seemed to know Ren was Leia’s son, — he’ll have to ask him about that as well — and Finn contemplates divulging that tidbit of information to Rose but decides it’s not his place. Yet, if Poe knew Ren once, it could very well be possible he’s dealing with the same conflicted feelings regarding the monster that the General is. 

_That’s not good enough…_

They don’t have time to be conflicted when Rey could be out there suffering _right now_.

“Even if he doesn’t come along, though, I’m going,” he says finally. “Next place we land I’m jumping ship and going after Rey, team or no.”

“That’s your plan?” Rose scoffs at him, but there’s a sadness in her eyes as she asks the question.

“Yes.” Last place Rey was spotted was on Naboo, so that’s where he’ll start. It’ll be difficult to get there considering she left her homing beacon here _and_ he doesn’t have a ship, but transportation is most always available for those willing to pay or work for it. And once he arrives on the planet, he can— He’ll— _What AM I going to do there, exactly? I don’t know where she went from Naboo…_ He sighs, suddenly much more unsure of himself than he was a moment ago. “Look, I know it’s not much, Rose, but I have to do _something_. I can’t just leave her out there, I have to try.”

Rose must realize his distress because her expression softens and she mumbles, “I’ll help you”, sighing nervously. “Do you know how long it’ll be before we land again?”

“Not sure...” They had only stopped to refuel once, on a planet Finn can’t remember the name of, and Leia and Poe started looking for potential bases immediately after. The two of them and Chewie have been locked up in the cockpit discussing locations for _ages_ ; Finn stopped counting after the four-hour mark. “But as soon as I find out I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.” Timidness crosses Rose’s face and she closes the ‘fresher door. Finn waits, ready to walk her back to her bunk once she’s finished.

He sighs, knowing all that he’s asking from her, knowing the danger he’s already put her through in the four short days they’ve known each other. Kriff, they nearly died at the hands of the First Order. But he _has to_ find Rey; Rose seems to understand that.

“So exactly how wizard is your friend, really?” Rose calls through the door just before it slides open.

“Huh?” He can’t help but chortle a bit at her word choice.

“I mean,” she lifts an arm, and he ducks underneath it, supporting her weight as they make their way back down the corridor, “if she’s _really_ wizard she could fight Kylo Ren, right? Hold him off and all that.” Finn can’t entirely see her face but he thinks her tone sounds anxious.

“Um, I don’t know.” Poe was the one to inform him that Rey had gone after Skywalker, and Leia had claimed she was _‘strong with the Force’_ , whatever that meant. But he, personally, has no clue as to what Rey can and can’t do with her _powers_. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” puffing the bangs out her eyes, she looks at him bleakly, “I guess I mean, how long do you think you have to get to her before… _something_ happens?”

_Oh…_

He can’t fathom responding to that question without his chest clenching, and his eyes burning, and his hands trembling. So he deflects. “She’s not going to die. She escaped Ren once,” he says resolutely, thinking of how he and Han and Chewie had found her wandering the corridors of _Starkiller Base_ freely, searching for a way out on her own. “She can do it again.” And when she does, he’ll be there to help her back to safety, to help her back _home_.

Rose nods dully, her gaze falling to the clanking durasteel floor as they approach her bunk, entering the more populated area of the freighter. “I believe you,” she utters so quietly he nearly misses it, helping her up onto the thin mattress and fluffing her scant pillow. 

“Thanks,” he whispers once she’s settled under her blanket, placing a hand on her shoulder warmly and smiling despite his worry. Her brows pinch and she looks as if she’s about to say something important to him, but Poe’s booming voice rings from across the loungeport.

“Finn! Buddy!” He comes jogging towards them as Rose sits up nervously behind Finn. “Ya got a minute?”

“Uh—” Finn turns to her imploringly and she lifts a hand as if to say _‘I’ll tell you later’_ , burying herself back under her covers. “Uh, yes,” he finishes, turning back to Poe.

“Okay, come on.” Poe grabs his shirt sleeve, half-dragging him down the corridor. “The General wants to see you.”

_Kriff…_

“What for?” he prods, but Poe just waves a hand and shakes his head, giving him nothing.

When they enter the cockpit, Leia’s leaning against the pilot’s seat with an easy yet knowing expression on her face, cane in hand and Chewie beside her. “Finn, would you take a seat?” Her voice is pleasant as she motions to the passenger chair opposite from her, but he can’t help feeling like a scolded child as he sits down uncomfortably. “I know you’re planning to go after Rey,” she says bluntly once he’s settled, not even attempting to start softly.

“General I—”

She stops him with a look he would not like to be on the receiving end of a second time. “I admire your dedication to your friends, but you must know I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? Rey’s a part of the Resistance too, we should be helping her!”

“Finn...” The General pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to remain calm, unlike him. “We need every Resistance member we can spare. We don’t have the resources to be sending out rescue teams in search of _one person_.” Her eyes are near begging, large and watering like she might understand what he’s going through. But her next statement proves that assumption glaringly wrong: “I have a feeling that Rey will come to us when she’s ready.”

“A _FEELING_?” he shouts, but Chewie growls and it affects him much like a _‘watch yourself’_ would, so he lowers his voice. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need a little bit more than 'a feeling', General.”

Leia smirks at him slyly as though she knows something that he doesn’t, which is, more than likely, completely true. “That’s why we’re going to Ahch-To.”

“What the hell is on Ahch-To?” He’s never even heard of the blasted place. _Why can’t this woman ever answer a question directly?_

“Apparently,” Poe says pointedly, coming up beside him and clasping his shoulder, “Luke Skywalker.”


	8. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leia ruminates before reuniting with Luke. Rey and Ben go to 'the city'.

After working out the least trackable hyperspace route with the coordinates Chewie provided the Resistance, it takes them three days to arrive on Ahch-To. Avoiding commercial star-routes and jumping sporadically between mid and outer rim systems. It’s a wonder they only have to stop to refuel twice with how old the _Falcon_ is.

But Han had always said there’s more to the junk-heap of a freighter than meets the eye, and Leia has never been more grateful for that than she is now. She needs all the hidden strength she can muster. 

While en route, she scarcely lets Finn out of her sight, recognizing his indomitable, fool-hardy loyalty to Rey and what he believes to be the _right thing to do_ ; A rebel through and through, indeed. But when she does give him a moment of reprieve from her ever-watchful eye, she makes sure Chewie keeps tabs on him from afar. 

And in the few, somber moments she has to herself, Leia goes in the _Falcon’s_ cockpit and sits in the all too familiar captain’s chair, letting her thoughts drift dourly to her twin. Though she must admit, she hasn’t really stopped thinking of him since Crait. 

She had been so sure they’d lost that day, that the First Order would descend upon their meager excuse for a hideout and strike them down. And hope would finally flicker out in the galaxy as the Resistance fell. 

But they hadn’t fallen. Chewie had come to her aid — like he has so many times in her life — and she hadn’t even sought him out. He’d simply appeared. Exactly when the Resistance needed him most.

But where was Luke? Had he heard her cry for help and sent Chewie to their aid? 

_No._

Rey had done that herself, _without him_. So what was he doing? Why was he shutting her out?

Leia knows he left for a reason all those years ago, for punishment, for _exile_. Yet she’d sent Rey to him with hope in her heart that they’d return together because she _needed him_. Still does. But he’s _not here_. Instead, he’s managed to lose the second young person she's sent his way, not over the span of thirteen years as with her son, but in _two days_.

It occurs to Leia that she might be the slightest bit angry with her brother.

Nearly seven years she’s been without him and the first real chance she had to see him, to fight alongside him again, to ask him all the questions she needs answered went up in smoke because Rey _didn’t bring him back_. In fact, it seems as though she ran away from him. With _Ben_ … 

Chewie has still yet to explain if or what he knows of Rey’s plan. Only that he was aware she and Luke had a disagreement and they left Ahch-To promptly afterward. Never once has he mentioned Ben in the four days since he retrieved the Resistance from Crait, but Leia can tell he knows more than he’s letting on. Which makes this whole situation as intriguing as it is _frustrating_.

What had Luke said to Rey to make her leave? Why did she go to Ben? How did they become fugitives of the First Order? What had rekindled the Light within her son? Why isn’t Chewie telling her _anything_?

_Blast..._

Too many questions and too few resources to help her answer them.

She had considered reaching out to Ben again, perhaps to receive some insight on all of this from his perspective. But her search for him three days ago had drained her, though she’d never admit it. Almost as if she were a cup and the act of finding him had unbalanced her, pouring out her mind’s contents and only allowing her to function at half-speed. It’s taken her three days to feel wholly like herself again and she needs to stay that way. Needs to be of sound thoughts when she speaks to Luke.

_What am I going to say to him after all these years?_

She’ll have to ask about Rey at some point. For Finn. The poor young man deserves answers after all his worrying and she wants nothing more than for him to receive them, especially after the most recent First Order news transmission. The holo had only been of Rey this time, taken on a security camera as she was leaving a refueling station in the outer rim it would seem. The sight of her alone had placated Finn to a degree, but he’d still plead his case to go after her. Claiming that he was only one person and wasn’t needed here as much as he was ‘out there’, finding Rey.

Leia countered that he was plenty needed here, by many, pointing out her trigger-happy shadow, Dameron, who worries for him ceaselessly, silently. And the young mechanic, Rose, who’s lost far more than anyone should in the short amount of time that she has. They need him for the devotedness he so clearly places in all that he cares for.

And he couldn’t argue with her on that front, finally submitting to stay, _for now_.

So Leia would find out about Rey for Finn because he _needs_ to know. It’s the least she can do given how much she’s shut him down these past four days. And she, too, is curious as to what has become of the young scavenger, what had caused her to flee from her brother.

Leia feels her anger flare again and she sighs, realizing she might not want to know what occurred in all actuality. If the fault was Rey’s, she would have to tell Finn as much, and he wouldn’t take to that easily. But if the fault was Luke’s she…

What would she do? What _could_ she do? 

She’s stumbling blindly through the dark without all the information, without all the _facts_. The last time she’d felt this powerless was after learning Ben had destroyed Luke’s temple. And to this day she’s still unsure as to what all that took place on that night, the echoes of that uncertainty muddling her thoughts now more than ever.

_What am I going to do?_ She thinks, beyond exasperation.

But before she can wallow any longer in her confusion, the _Falcon_ alerts her to the approach of their drop point and she pulls the freighter out of the swirl of hyperspace promptly, mechanically. The vessel jostles to a halt before a clouded, watery grey planet, their last stop: Ahch-To. Leia’s gut turns.

_What am I going TO DO?_

“General?” A knock comes on the cockpit’s door before it slides open and Dameron steps into her line of sight, quiet anxiousness written all over his face. “We’ve come out of hyperspace.”

“I can see that,” she says dryly, nodding to the small world through the viewport as she rises from her seat, grunting under her breath. Had her back hurt this much yesterday? “Would you send Chewie in? He knows where to go from here.”

“Yeah, sure,” he mutters, cocking a concerned brow at her before leaving to retrieve her old friend.

Leia leans against the arm of the pilot’s seat and waits, steadying her suddenly ragged breath. She could probably count on one hand the number of times she’s been this nervous. _How does one speak with someone who doesn’t want to be spoken to?_

She hasn’t been waiting long when a soft, amicable growl sounds behind her and she turns, smiling dimly up at the Wookie.

He wastes no time, planting himself in the captain’s chair promptly and taking the _Falcon_ down into Ahch-To’s atmosphere, towards her brother. Leia places a hand on her hairy companion’s shoulder and finds herself overcome by a moment of festering grief nearly seven years in the making. She knows now, with Chewie beside her, why the thought of seeing Luke makes her very bones ache.

She’s held out hope all these years that they’d be together again. Her and Luke and Chewie and… _Han…_

Cold tears run down her cheeks, but as she goes to wipe them away Chewie’s large hand reaches up and rests atop hers on his shoulder. A moment of silent understanding passes between them as if he knows seeing Luke again _with her_ will make this all the more harrowing than it had been _without her_.

Leia allows herself one, long overdue sob, letting it rack viciously through her lungs before straightening her aching back, thanking her friend in earnest and striding out of the cockpit. 

She can’t crumble at the sight of her twin, she won’t let herself. He has answers she needs and she’s come to acquire them, whether he cooperates or not.

“Dameron!” she calls out, trekking through the freighter’s corridor towards the loungeport — where everyone seems to congregate — as swiftly as she can manage with her cane.

“General?” He meets her at the edge of the hall as quickly as she says his name, ready to listen to her orders for once it would seem, the situation’s gravity sobering him perhaps.

“When we land, I’ll be the only one to leave the ship,” she explains and Dameron gives her a perplexed look but doesn’t argue. “It’ll be temporary of course, but I would like to speak with my brother _alone_ before we all get into any logistics conversations with him.”

He nods, “Understood. I’ll tell everyone.”

“Thank you.” She pats his shoulder, sending him back down the corridor as she turns, heading for the _Falcon’s_ boarding ramp, ready to face whatever awaits on the other end of it once they land. 

Closing her eyes, Leia reaches within herself, searching for resolve and restraint; She’ll need both if she wants to stay calm. But she feels the ship lurch, touching down, and finds her ire spiking again, her fingers closing tighter around her cane as she realizes something: Luke doesn’t deserve her restraint. Not after the solitude he’s made her suffer in his absence.

She presses the ramp release with a heavy fist and begins walking down before it’s even hit the ground. At least she’s found her resolve.

The air on Ahch-To is thick and _cold_ , making her grit her teeth against the wall of humidity that she steps into as she treads off of the ramp. It would appear that Chewie landed them on the outskirts of a small village. Domed huts lie sprinkled along the craggy, green hillside before her; She hadn’t considered the possibility of others taking refuge here as well.

But as she makes her way through the little ‘homes’, it becomes clear that no one has lived in them for a long, _long_ time. Except for one. Thin, white smoke billows from the topmost hut on the hill and Leia forces her feet to move faster, knowing who waits for her there, taking the incline with sure feet and a sturdy grip on her cane. 

She passes the remains of a demolished hut and, from what Leia can make of it, decides a heavy storm could have been the culprit if the dark clouds rolling over the horizon are any indicator to the planet’s weather patterns. Yet, the sight of the collapsed stones sends a peculiar sensation down her spine for reasons she can’t quite fathom, but she pushes the thought away and finishes her trek to the occupied hut. 

The scent of boiling water and herbs wafts through the stone crevices of the shelter as she reaches the door, a different, familiar sensation overwhelming her senses with _recognition_ at this close proximity. _Luke…_

Before her assuredness flees her, she raps her cane handle bluntly against the entryway and takes in a deep breath through her nose. Unhurried movement rustles inside for a moment or two, and then, suddenly, a sharp gasp of acknowledgment, of _recognition_. Something is knocked over fitfully just as the door is flung open and…there he is.

A bit greyer, a bit thicker. Face drawn, seeming to have taken on more age than the seven years that have passed. But his eyes are just as clear and blue as ever, gaze locked onto hers, flooded with relief and worry and confusion and _awe_. “Leia…” Even his voice is rougher, almost discordant. 

Leia knows she should greet him back, attempt to be good-natured, but the words that fall from her mouth are far from such, though she can’t find it within herself to regret them, “You absolute _moof-milker_ …”

**————————**

Sunrises don’t hold much weight for Rey. She might even go so far as saying she doesn’t like them at all. 

Back on Jakku, they represented nothing lovely, only signaling the start to yet another sweltering day out in the ship graveyards, gathering scrap that would no doubt bring her abhorrently low profit. But moonrises on her homeworld were, by far, her preference despite the dangers that accompanied the nighttime: Bandits and night raiders, skittish thieves who made to steal what little she had while she slept.

Yet the nights were cool and the breezes refreshing. Moons far-off, but radiant still; A reminder that there was _more_ to be had out in the galaxy.

And more she’s beginning to find. Like that sunrises on Raxus are much different than they are on Jakku. Not blinding but _illuminating_ , stretching above the horizon in more than just _one, stark color_. 

Gold and pink and orange glittering off the little grove’s water bank that she and Ben had found. The morning sun burning away the night’s dew, lifting fog into the air for the colors to reflect off as well, their brilliance stinging Rey’s eyes.

But she doesn’t look away. She woke up early to see this and see it she will. Every bright, eye-squinting second of it.

She hadn’t told Ben about her morning plans, not wanting him to lose sleep over such an insignificant, little desire of hers. Especially since he’s probably seen plenty of sunrises exactly like this one in his lifetime. Though she keeps the bond open for when he wakes up, ready to tell him where she is if he begins to worry like he no doubt will.

They share that particular concern for one another, she’s found. That suffocating fear of abandonment. Of being drawn in just close enough to something, — to _someone_ — only to be tossed aside again. Slicing through the scar tissue of years spent trying to _heal_ that first, near-fatal wound.

And the neediness that comes with such fear is a hard habit to shake. It’s a good thing, really, that they’re so similar in that regard. She can’t look down on him for wanting to know where she is all the time because she wants to know just the same about him. Wants to always feel the steady hum of his Force signature close by. And having him this close has spoiled her. So much so that she can’t remember what she felt like without him; a part of her almost wonders if she ever truly was.

He’s already so _familiar_. And it’s only been four days since they left together, but she could swear she’s known him all her life. As if the edges of her memory — her dreams — are coaxing her to recall something of him that’s just out of her reach, slipping between her fingers. 

And she can tell that he feels it too when she catches him staring at her. Like he’s straining to piece her into a puzzle in his mind, trying to remember something, _anything_. It’s remarkably frustrating.

But rather than dwelling on the unsettling thought, she admires the alien sun, letting her mind wander towards blankness, at the cusp of meditation but not quite. 

The idea to watch the day grow had come to her yesterday morning when she’d woken up to use the ‘fresher at, coincidentally, the tail end of the sunrise. Right on time to witness faint, ruby streams of light reaching into the corridors from the cockpit just before their color shifted and the day came in full. The minute display of beauty had caught her interest enough to make her want to watch it again. 

This time, from beginning to end.

And it _is_ beautiful, lighting the hazy edges of nearby planetary systems as the sky brightens. Entirely unlike the bleak, Jakku sunrises she’s used to in every conceivable way. So after a while, when the sun begins to prickle on her shoulders and cheeks, she decides that she doesn’t care whether she gets a sunburn or not because it won’t be a _Jakku sunburn_.

But a different sort of prickle starts at the back of her neck and she smiles.

_“Where’d you go?”_ Ben calls out. 

Rey didn’t know a voice could sound tired in her head but somehow he manages to pull it off. _I’m outside…_ she calls back, imagining him reaching blindly for her in the sheets of their little bunk.

He doesn’t say anything in return but she knows he’s coming. She can feel it in the way that little, glowing thread connecting them seems to shorten with every step he takes in her direction. Her toes curl in and out of the mudbank in time with his feet until he’s sitting down beside her, hair bedraggled and a pillow crease marking his cheek.

After a beat of silence, he asks, “What possessed you to wake up so early?” His voice hoarse but interested.

“I wanted to see the sunrise,” she answers quietly.

“Ah...” Rey is neither a late sleeper nor an early riser. Her body simply knows the amount of time it needs to rest, and when she’s done, she’s done. The later she stays up, the later she sleeps in and vice versa. Whether or not Ben has caught on to that particular attribute yet, she can’t say, but when she’d made sure to go to bed earlier last night he hadn’t protested. “Was it a nice one?”

She turns to look at him, his eyes set on the now blue horizon with a vibrancy in his expression despite the tiredness. “I think so,” she shifts her gaze back to the sparsely clouded sky, “though I’m not the best judge.”

Ben makes no comment on her statement and she’s rather glad that he doesn’t, she’s thought enough of her homeworld today as it is. Instead, he brushes the hair away from her face and kisses her ear.

Slowly, sleepily, his lips make their way to hers and Rey finds she’s glad about that too. She can appreciate it better like this, the leisurely warmth of his skin on hers.

“Swim with me?” he asks, sighing into her mouth.

“Of course,” she whispers back, pulling her recently designated sleep shirt — one she’d bought for Ben on Eadu that turned out being too small — over her head and following him into the water.

They’d swam yesterday morning after her hips made it clear during an attempt sparring session that they weren’t quite ready for _that_ much movement just yet. So she’d gotten a second swimming lesson instead that was marginally more productive than her first. _Marginally_.

“So what am I learning today?” she prods, meeting him at the center of the pond, focusing hard on keeping afloat while trying _not_ to let on that she is.

They’d gone over backstrokes yesterday. Her attempts to mimic him had only been _mildly_ disastrous, but he’ll probably want her to review those again before moving on to anything else.

“How about nothing?”

“Nothing?” She looks at him inquisitively, surprised by the answer.

“Mhm...” He takes her by the hands and draws her through the water a little ways. “Just a swim.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, smiling softly. “Why not?”

She has no genuine argument for that aside from the fact their ration packs will be gone after they eat breakfast. They’ll have to go to that city north of here to replenish their supplies at some point during the day. But she doesn’t bring it up. 

He’s so relaxed here, _with her_ , — more relaxed every day — and she knows the thought of people _seeing_ them will only reignite his worry. So she says nothing, allowing herself to pretend, at least for the morning, that they’re not wanted ‘criminals’.

“Okay...just a swim,” she echoes back, pulling him closer. Then, warning with a smirk, “But I’m still not very good at this, you might get splashed.”

He chuckles and spins them lazily around in the water, taking care to curve her body tightly against his. “I don’t mind.”

And that’s how they ‘swim’, tucked around each other, floating, drifting easily with the breeze. Rey honestly wouldn’t have it any other way because the gentle buzz of his skin against hers is, quite plainly, _perfect_. There’s no other word to describe it. 

But before long, the pestering part of her brain — the part that receives far too much enjoyment from getting a rise out of him — takes control of her mouth and she snickers into his chest, “Y’know, this isn’t exactly what I imagined when you asked me to swim with you.”

“Oh?” Sarcasm and, perhaps, excitement drip from his voice. “Do tell…”

“Well,” she arches her back to look at him, rubbing her hip bones against his, “I figured you would show me a new swim stroke.”

“Mhm…” His eyes flit down to her chest and she continues.

“Or I’d work on something we’d gone over already. Either way,” she hooks an arm around his shoulder and combs her fingers through the hair at his nape, “I’d be practicing. Swimming.”

He nods, lowering his lips to her neck and kissing her pulse point.

Humming, she tilts her head to the side, providing him more room. “But after a while, given our previous ‘swimming’ experiences, you’d get distracted.”

“Me?” he quips, feigning innocence, running his hands over the undersides of her thighs and raising her out of the water, folding her legs around his waist effortlessly. “Surely not…” 

She wriggles her hips against his stomach winsomely, partially in goading, but also in an attempt to make herself more comfortable. Her core still twinges every once in a while if she moves her lower half too drastically, which she credits to being new at this sort of thing and, maybe…possibly, a bit _too eager_.

“Yes, but lucky for you,” her nails scrape along his shoulders as he traces kisses between her breasts, “it wouldn’t bother me.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t?” he says, closing his lips around her left nipple slowly.

She sighs, melting into him, “Not at all…”

“Hmm, that’s good to hear,” he murmurs teasingly and resumes his task, drawing his tongue from her left breast to her right, nuzzling them shamelessly. And Rey can only lay her cheek atop his head, curling her fingers into his hair as his mouth works, warming her up, making her tremble. But he stops suddenly and pulls back to look at her with hooded eyes, asking through swollen lips, “Are we going to end up like this every time we get into a body of water?”

She kisses him and laughs breathily. “Stars, I hope so…”

————

The city, Raxulon, as it turns out, is the capital of Raxus. A towering, copper, and white marble circinate metropolis that proves a great deal larger than Rey had originally surmised from afar. 

A significant amount of air traffic permeates above the city that she hadn’t noticed when they’d arrived on planet, but it dwindles out at around a fifteen-kilometer radius. So she and Ben have no trouble merging into a sky-lane tracking over the entrance of what appears to be a downtown area, heading towards one of the many ship ports at the rear of the city. But as they near their destination, the size of the populace begins to make itself clear and that, too, is much larger than Rey would have thought it to be. Every road and walkway bustles, heavily occupied, yet it’s midday and she expects the civilians will begin to disperse as the afternoon wanes. 

At least, she _hopes_ they will. 

They’re nearing the landing pads when Ben begins to fidget. It’s not obnoxious, just the slightest twitching in his shoulders and legs and Rey probably wouldn’t have even noticed if it wasn’t for the slew of anxiousness rushing out of him and through the bond. Making her, in turn, more anxious than she already is.

“Hey,” she reaches across the cockpit and takes his hand reassuringly, attempting to keep the nervousness out of her voice, “we won’t stay for long. We’re just getting the essentials and going.” 

He nods, relaxing a bit.

When they had finally gotten out of the water back at _their_ grove, the subject of the city and how they should go about navigating it came up. 

Though she hadn’t really cared much for the idea, Rey suggested going by herself, knowing she wouldn’t draw as much attention as Ben if their wanted holos had somehow made their way to Raxus. But he’d quickly argued that they’d be safer together — assured of one another’s whereabouts — on the off chance they were recognized. 

She agreed.

So they tried to make themselves look as discreet as possible before leaving. Not much could be done for Ben as his only clothes are the ones he escaped the _Supremacy_ in, but Rey was able to fashion herself a hood out of her body wraps. At least some of her face could be hidden from view that way.

But regardless of their ‘disguises’, they left with trepidation, making sure their lightsabers were tucked close to their bodies, unseen.

And Rey can feel the thrum of her saber’s kyber crystal against her hip now, — hidden carefully beneath her tunic — using the steady sensation to calm herself as they touch down on one of the outermost landing platforms. She recalls what Skywalker had taught her, _briefly_ , about clearing her mind. Breathing in and out slowly, deliberately. Searching for the Balance in all things.

_The First Order has no jurisdiction in this system. You have nothing to worry about…You’re safe here…You’re safe…You’re safe…_

_“What are you doing?”_ Ben asks silently, jolting her out of her thoughts and she chortles weakly at her own surprise.

“Trying to relax,” she says, sighing as if she’d just run a long distance. “Looking for Balance...”

“Balance?” His voice is incredulous as he raises a brow at her, almost amused.

“You never take a moment to breathe before doing something that scares you?” she fires back, equally disbelieving.

Chuckling brusquely, he looks out the viewport at the landing pads stretching towards the city before them. “Not really, no.”

Rey snorts. “That explains a lot…”

He laughs dryly at that and they both rise from their seats, — almost synchronized — heading for the boarding ramp, opening it hesitantly.

The instant the durasteel hits the stone platform Ben takes her hand, threading his fingers between her own and squeezing. He doesn’t say anything, not even in her mind, but as they walk out of the ship Rey can feel him focusing. Siphoning encouragements through his hand into hers, warming her skin in a pleasantly unnatural, bone-deep kind of way.

For whatever reason, it makes her want to cry

But she doesn’t let herself. Rather, she works to send the same warmth back to him. Letting it build her — and, hopefully, his — confidence with each step they take into Raxulon.

The first thing Rey notices about the city up close is the blatant lack of First Order propaganda. Naboo’s capital hadn’t had much, of course, but there were still the token few, crimson banners displayed here and there. Raxulon harbors nothing like that. No banners or stormtroopers or air patrols greet them as they walk through the city. 

The capital, as a whole, is constructed in a circular formation with main roads and passages extending out from the central downtown area like spokes from an ancient wheel. To the north, where she and Ben had landed their freighter, ship platforms and garages take up a half-ring surrounding the city’s core. And, from what Rey can see, lodging and apartment communities take up the south. 

But where they are is where they need to be, in the teeming downtown with its storefronts, and vendors, and what she assumes are political offices. The capitol building — a crescent-shaped structure — loops around the main marketplace, adorning it with various silver sculptures of sentient species. Rey doesn’t know anything of their significance or meaning but appreciates their detail and beauty nonetheless.

Then suddenly — as if a lag in her brain has finished running its course— the realization that not a single trace of the First Order taints this shining, opulent city crashes upon Rey and she throws her makeshift hood off her head, allowing herself to take everything in unhindered. To soak in the staggering copper rooftops glistening in the sun. And the colored glass windows that set off the paleness of the marble stone-workings. And the annular fountains at the marketplace’s center, shooting columns of shimmering, bubbling water into the clear sky. It’s _magnificent_.

She glimpses Ben from out of the corner of her eye, gawking at her abrupt shift in mood, but she can’t help it. She feels _lighter_ somehow by being here. By knowing that they really are safe rather than trying to convince herself that they are from afar.

And, eventually, Ben’s shoulders relax too. Tugging on her hand lightly, he draws her attention to a vendor at his right. “Soap,” he whispers enthusiastically, pointing to a cart piled high with the waxy bars.

“Oh.” She blushes, immediately remembering that his hygiene standards might prove a tad loftier than her own because she hadn’t even _thought_ of soap. Kriff, the first time she’d used it was on the Resistance base on D’Qar, before that she’d only had sand-baths to scrape the grime from her skin. 

So, yes, it’s completely understandable that Ben would want soap after going four days without it. 

She follows him to the vendor and that’s how they start. Skirting from shop to shop, picking up what they need here and there, making quiet, easy conversation with one another.

At first, it seems wrong, walking about freely, like she’s going to blink and the First Order will manifest from the air. Punishing her for being so at ease out in the open. But the feeling is fleeting and she begins to wonder if this is how normal people go through life, without the pressure of food portions to earn, or myths to seek out, or the First Order to hide from.

She decides that Raxus might just be her new favorite place in the galaxy because here she’s _just Rey_. Not a scavenger, not a ‘Jedi’, and most certainly not a fugitive. And Ben is just Ben, wonder of wonders, smiling shyly at her every few minutes as they work their way through the marketplace. His steps light and his mind clear, for the most part. 

Still, she struggles to comprehend that he’s real, that her vision of him on Ahch-To is blooming into reality right before her eyes. And it’s only been _four days_. What will he be like in four weeks, four months, four _years_? 

_Will we stay here that long?_ Her heartbeat stutters at the thought.

“We still need clothes,” Ben mumbles, a look of discomfort crossing his face that he attempts to mask with a smirk. 

Rey sees right through it but says nothing as she looks down at the items they’ve already accumulated. Soap, toothbrushes, dried meats and fruits, water packs, birth control, — _That’ll be interesting_ — medkits, but no clothes. “Yes, we do.” She looks around at the storefronts, searching for a rack or sign indicating where they could get them. Aside from the undershirts she bought on Eadu, this will be the first time she’s sought out garments to purchase for herself. All of her previous clothing articles had been made by hand or offered to her by Resistance members before she set off in search of _Luke Skywalker_.

“Over there,” Ben nods to a small shop alongside the last row of street vendors, the mannequins in the window artlessly sporting work and outerwear of the most deficient colors Rey has ever seen.

She snickers but heads towards the store regardless. “Well, you certainly have a vibrant taste,” her voice mocking as she looks up at him.

“They’re discreet,” he says, discomfort returning to his expression as he eyes the clothes on display at the entrance of the little outlet. “We don’t need anything gaudy.”

“Maybe _you_ don’t, but what about me?”

He raises a brow, knowing full well she couldn’t care less about what her clothes look like, and laughs. Then, through the bond, _“Why should it matter what we wear, we don’t keep anything on for very long, anyway…”_

Rey’s head snaps up and their eyes meet, his gaze amused and beckoning. She scoffs, a bit put off because _he’s right_. Today is the first time either of them has been fully clothed since they arrived on planet.

“If you put it _that_ way…” she mutters begrudgingly, starting down the first aisle of bland, _bland_ clothing and picking out a shirt at random. He chuckles low behind her. 

She wonders where he gets that from, the dry humor, the blatant honesty. Han seemed like the type, — though she hadn’t known him long — but assigning the old war hero’s attributes to his son still makes her chest ache. So she stops thinking about it, picking at the sleeve of a work shirt the color of muddy water that looks to be about her size. She pulls it off the rack. “How about this one?” she asks, turning to Ben and lifting the collar to her chin, stifling the laughter rising in her throat as she bats her lashes dramatically. “It matches my eyes.”

He looks at her, gaze traveling down her body lingeringly, entirely disinterested with the shirt in her hand. Her pulse quickens. _Slightly_. “Your eyes are prettier than that,” he says sternly, with finality, and shifts back to the rack of clothes.

_Oh… Blatant honesty…_

“Well, I’m getting it anyway,” she states, heading towards a rack of jackets lining the back wall.

He huffs, “Be my guest,” and trails after her, not a scrap of clothing in his hands.

“Aren’t you going to get anything?” she asks, noticing again the stiff way he’s been holding his shoulders since he brought up clothes. He only shrugs. _Hmm…_ Turning to the rack, she sifts through the male and male-adjacent section, searching for something for him since he’s clearly not going to do it himself. Eventually, a tawny leather jacket — made for speeder bikes in all likelihood — catches her attention and she grins. “ _This_ matches _your_ eyes,” she supplies and holds it up to him. He takes it with reluctant fingers.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, sounding the farthest thing from thankful. 

“Ben.” Austerity fills her tone as his eyes lock onto hers. “They’re just clothes. What’s the issue?”

He dips his gaze, fist clenching nervously as pink begins to color what she can see of his ears. “I—” Sighing, he works his jaw. “I haven’t had a ‘wardrobe’ in over six years. And didn’t have much of one _before_ …” He trails off, eyes falling lower somehow. “I don’t even know where to start. I’m just…not used to this, that’s all.”

Rey places a hand on his arm and smiles reassuringly, “Neither am I.” And then, as he stares at her like she might be the most peculiar person in the galaxy, she has an idea. “What’s your favorite color?”

“What?” He’s certain now of her peculiarness.

“What’s your favorite color?” she repeats, chuckling. “And you can’t say black.”

He levels her with a vexed glare, but smirks. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Well, what is then?” She taps her boot at him spurringly, trying to guess his answer while he thinks. _Red? Grey? Nothing? Nothing sounds like something he would say._

“Blue…”

_Blue? Like Luke's saber?_ Her saber...

“Really?” She hadn’t expected _that_. “Why?”

His brow knits nervously and he laughs through his nose. “Why do you care?” Genuine concern flashes across his face as he asks the question.

“Because...” She tugs him back towards the front of the store. “You’re going to get yourself some blue shirts, boring as these ones may be,” she says, tossing the first hint of blue she sees on the rack at him. “And, because I wanted to know.”

“Oh…” He blinks surprisedly, seeming to consider her words before helping her look through the garments with a bit more presence.

“Are you going to tell me?” she prods after a moment, and he looks over at her in confusion, lost to her meaning. “Why you like blue…” she clarifies.

“Oh, um—” He tweaks his nose and slowly, gradually, something agonized flooding his eyes. But he tilts his head and it vanishes in an instant as he hums thoughtfully, “How about we finish up here? I’ll tell you later.”

Rey nods, perplexed but satisfied for now. If he doesn't want to share yet, then she won't push him, though she can’t imagine what about the color blue would make him so… _What is he feeling?_ She reaches through the bond, skimming the surface of his mind, isolating his emotions. Finding regret and resentment and… _longing?_ No, she won’t push him on this.

“Okay,” she concedes, nudging him peaceably with her shoulder. “But I’m going to hold you to that.”

He picks out another shirt and chuckles under his breath, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	9. A Punishable Offense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leia gives Luke a 'talkin' to'. Ben suffers a nightmare. Hux interrogates a witness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief angst in this one, apologies...
> 
> Recap:  
> Luke is a moof-milker. We all knew that.

“Leia?” Luke’s face scrunches in alarm.

“Who heard me right!” she shouts, marching into the dismal hut with ice in her eyes and steel on her tongue. “What in blazes happened?”

He stumbles back, knocking into a small stone bench at his knees. “I— I don’t know what you mean. What are you doing here?” It’s encouraging to know that even the ‘Mighty Luke Skywalker’ still quakes in the face of her temper.

“You know _exactly_ what I mean!” Maybe pushing him down onto the seat with the end her cane is a bit too harsh, but it doesn't stop her from doing it. “In fact, you know _everything_ , don’t you, and never thought to grace me with such information. Hmm?”

“Leia—”

“I’m not done!” The piercing fright that fills his eyes reminds her of when she’d first met him, when she’d ripped his blaster right out of his hands on the _Death Star’s_ detention level and thrown herself into a trash compactor. _Good…Keep him on his toes…_ “You’ve been hiding here, doing nothing, while the galaxy falls into ruin! All for what? _Punishment_? You could have been helping! Helping _me_!” Her chest suddenly feels tight, straining.

“I’m one man, Leia. What can I possibly do to turn the ti—”

“ _ONE MAN_?” She has to still herself, restrain her open palm from coming in blunt contact with his face. “Like hell, you aren’t! You’re Luke _Skywalker_ … You could bring hundreds, _thousands_ , to our cause!”

“Your cause,” he says so quietly she wonders if he said anything at all. It’s then that Leia truly looks at her twin. At the wrinkles around his eyes, and the creases in his brow. At the hollows of his cheeks masked only by his beard, not trim and kempt like it had been the last time she’d seen him, but frayed and near white in places. _When did we get so old?_

“Han’s dead…” she tells him, watching his brows twitch in barely contained distress. 

He sighs, “Rey told me as much,” and strokes a slow hand through his beard.

_Rey…_ Leia plants her feet steadier into the dirt floor and sighs as well, only a tad more irritably. “Did she tell you who killed him?”

Luke’s eyes lift to hers, redness blotching around them as a tear falls down his cheek. “Leia, I’m sorry, I—”

She raises a hand, not wanting to have that conversation just yet. “Did she tell you where she was going?”

“I— What?” He shifts uncomfortably on the bench, puzzlement evident on his visage.

“Rey. Do you know where she went?”

“She’s not with you?” he asks, puzzlement turning to panic.

“I wouldn’t have asked if she were,” she snaps, tapping her toe exhortingly. Of course, Leia knows where Rey is, to a certain degree. But she wants to test her brother’s honesty, see if he’ll withhold this information from her as well, like all the rest.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, muttering, “I did it again. But Yoda— Yoda said— Blast!” He sits up, gaze locking to hers with confusion that seems to deepen by the second.

“Yoda?” She hasn’t heard that name in almost twenty-five years. _What does he have to do with this?_

Luke waves dismissively, “Later…” then he studies her for a moment, weighing his words perhaps. “She went to _him_ , didn’t she. You already knew that.”

“Possibly,” she concedes, silently pleased that he hadn’t chosen to lie to her, annoyance beginning to soften.

He huffs and shakes his head, a smirk hinting beneath his beard, “You would have made fine Jedi.”

“Hmm, I disagree.” She shuffles around to the other end of the stone bench, noting the surprising cleanliness of the cramped hut, and sits down beside her twin. “I’m far too angry.”

“Ah, but it’s righteous anger with you,” he chuckles, but sombers quickly. “Always…”

It shouldn’t be this easy to talk with him, to fall back into their old rhythm, but it is. Nearly seven years gone by, but not between them, no, they might as well be right where they left off. “Before you disappeared, you told me my son was gone,” she says somewhere below even a whisper, because this, _this_ , is what she truly came here for. “That there was too much of our father in him.” Leia contemplates speaking graciously, but then again, it’s never been one of her strong suits. “You were _wrong_. There’s good in him, I know there is,” she pauses, entirely for effect, “I’ve felt it.”

“Leia, what—”

“I found him, Luke. I reached out and I found him. His Light...” she interrupts, a waver forming in her throat at just saying those words. Words she never thought she would live long enough to say.

Her brother’s expression twists, something deeper than worry wrinkling his brow. “What do you mean you ‘reached out’?” The way he asks the questions reminds her of when he’d trained her all those years ago. Attempting at authority but not quite selling it, too concerned with her feelings to be a proper teacher.

“I searched and the Force led me to him. As far as his location, I don’t know — if that’s what you’re wondering — I only found him, his being.”

“That’s not—” He pinches his nose, beyond exasperated, “Leia, what you did was dangerous.” She clenches her cane, resentment rising in her chest as he continues, “A ‘door’ to the mind has to be opened to accomplish what you did. You gave him direct access to everything inside your head, all he would have had to do was reach back.” He looks at her gravely, “ _Did_ he reach back?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Sighing through his nose, he runs a hand over his face, thinking. “If he had, all of your knowledge regarding the Resistance would be at his disposal. The First Order would have every detail of—”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

He turns to her, skeptical and intrigued. “And why not?”

“Because _my son_ , by decree of the new Supreme Leader, is a fugitive of the First Order,” she states, relishing his overt surprise at her words. She’ll tell him of Snoke and what occurred in the Crait System later, she still has answers to pry out of him. Answers about Rey, answers about Ben.

“He— Fugitive?” Realization flashes in his eyes. “Rey…”

“I believe so.”

Luke groans, sounding more than disgusted, more than ashamed. “She went after him, Leia. She told me she could turn him back to the Light and I didn’t believe her.” He groans again, a hand coming to his forehead in affliction. “I thought she would fall to the Dark, I thought—” He stops, eyes widening and, for an instant, he looks like the brother she remembers. “Leia, he was here. Ben was here, with Rey. I don’t know how or why but he was here, on this island, right in front of me. And then he was _gone_. Leia there’s— There’s so much…”

With a stuttering breath she knows. Knows that on this bleak, storming, grey planet all of her questions will be answered and her uncertainty forgotten. “Tell me,” she prods. “Tell me all of it.”

And so he does. Taking her hands between his own, Luke Skywalker turns to his twin sister and tells her _everything_.

**————————**

He’s a boy again, eleven or twelve perhaps, he’s not quite sure. Master Skywalker is with him, nudging him forward into the Crystal Cave of Ilum long before the First Order repurposed the world as _Starkiller Base_. The air is frigid and crisp, turning his uneasy breaths into crystals entirely different than the ones glowing in the walls, the floor, the ceiling, everywhere.

Skywalker had told him stories of the Cave from before the Empire had desecrated it, removing the ‘mystic’, waterfall entrance permanently to better harvest the kyber inside. How Padawans of the Old Republic could only pursue their crystals while the sun shone into the Cave on a specific day of the planet’s revolution. If they didn’t acquire their crystals before nightfall they were enclosed within the caverns, a wall of ice trapping them indefinitely without the sun to melt away their egress. So Ben is grateful, in a self-preserving, guilty sort of way, for the Empire’s defilement of the ancient Jedi Temple. He would like to make it out of here alive, _with his crystal_.

He knows there are other locations to go seeking out kyber in the galaxy but Luke had supplied that Anakin Skywalker had come to Ilum for his crystal when he was a Padawan, so Ben would too. _The last Skywalker…_

He’s far enough within the caverns now that the light from the entrance is diminutive, indistinguishable from the light emitted by the crystals. The ice crunching under his boots echoes up and around him, reverberating through the dark, winding tunnels and against the jagged ceiling, into the farthest reaches of the Cave. He is the only sound.

Master Luke had instructed him to reach out with his feelings before he’d entered the Cave, that his crystal would call to him if he did so. And he’s doing that, he’s following his training, focusing on the living energy all around him, searching for Balance. But nothing's happening. No tingle down his spine or assuredness in his feet directing him on where to go. No gentle thrum of the Force leading him to where he wants and _needs_ to be. In fact, the further he ventures into the caverns, the more he feels cut off from the Force and the kyber crystals glowing around him begin to dim, depleting his only light source gradually until he’s tripping through the dark. Blind.

But he walks on and on and on, stubborn, wanting to prove himself, until his front is greeted by the stinging cold of a wall he, obviously, cannot see. Frustrated, he turns to retrace his steps back to the entrance, to tell his Master that he’s failed, but is met with another, sturdy barrier. And then another and another and another and everywhere he steps he’s… _trapped_. Caged in an icy, pitch prison created specifically for him because somehow he knows, deep within himself, that no Padawan of the past had to suffer _this_. That this is separate from every story his uncle has told him of the Cave. That he is the only one to experience and know this. Isolated from everything. Suffocating in the dark. _Alone_.

At first, the silence is the worst of it and he finds himself screaming to mitigate his discomfort. Not in search of help or in hysteria, simply to remedy the soundlessness. But then a voice — distant and deep within his ear all at once — calls to him and the silence is suddenly preferable.

_Surely, you knew this would happen…Skywalker planned this…Coaxed you here to be rid of you…Much like your parents, don’t you think?_

“Stop,” his mouth forms the word but no sound leaves it. He tries again, “Stop!” Nothing. Fright turns in his stomach and his bones feel like lead as he tries one last time, shouting, “STOP!” But he has no voice, his vocal cords like sand in his throat as he claws at his skin, straining to make even the tiniest cry. To Luke, to his mother, his father, _anyone_ who will listen.

_Fool…You must know you deserve this…You’re a nuisance to them…A disappointment…All the potential but none of the will…They won’t save you, why should they when all you’ve brought them is strife…You have, and always will be, unwanted…_

“ _STOP_ , please!” He can feel cold, slick blood pooling beneath his nails, coursing between his fingers as he rakes at his neck, seeking words he won’t find. Then at his ears, doing anything to purge the voice from his mind, but his attempts are futile and, before long, half-hearted. Thinking that, perhaps, he does deserve this as he crumples onto the bitter floor, letting out silent wails he knows no one will hear.

But then… 

Someone _does_ hear him. A voice, hushed and warm, that is altogether foreign and familiar, worry behind every utterance of his name, “Ben…Ben, wake up.”

A knuckle runs along his cheek and he realizes abruptly that it’s not a stony floor he’s writing upon, but a bed, small and considerably softer by comparison. Even still, he shudders away from the touch.

“Ben?” Rey’s hand moves to rest lightly on his shoulder and his eyes flutter open, aching and blurry. “I think you were having a nightmare.” She comes into focus then, sitting up beside him with concern crinkling her brow, eyes darting between his. He nods. 

It’s the first nightmare he's had since leaving with Rey. But it hadn’t been so much a nightmare as a long-suppressed memory mangled and warped by fear. Fear from a boy long forgotten, or so he’d thought.

She reaches up again, brushing his cheek carefully and her fingers come back wet with tears he hadn’t known he’d shed. Startling, he swipes at his eyes, breathing deeply, quietly mortified. “I’m sorry...”

“What are you sorry for?”

He looks at her again, bewildered, wondering how in blazes she puts up with him. “I woke you up,” he states, waiting for her to become irritated with him at the very least.

“I don’t care,” she says, laying down on her side and tucking their bunk’s thin covers back around his waist. He must have thrown them off in his sleep. “What were you dreaming about?”

He lets out a long breath through his nose and shifts to face her, skirting his fingers down her arm as he contemplates the lack of annoyance in her expression. She really is something else. “It—”, he stops, thinking, “I—” But he can’t bring himself to burden her with the details, regardless of how understanding he knows she would be. And it weighs on him that he can’t muster the courage to allow her a view _that deep_ into his past because she _is_ so easy to let in. Unlike everyone else in his life. 

He’s about to apologize again when she cuts in, wrapping an arm around his middle and pulling herself into him. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she adds, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Okay,” he mutters, — grateful for her recognizing his discomfort — and scoots down in the bed so he can touch his nose to hers, nestling closer. The corners of her lips turn up. “Were you dreaming, before I so rudely interrupted your sleep?” he asks, trying to sound lighthearted despite the pounding in his head.

“Mhm…” Her smile broadens, warming his chest.

“A good one apparently,” he says, flattening his palm between her shoulder blades and tangling his legs with hers, _closer_ still. “What happened?”

She runs a finger slowly up his spine and replies, “I was back on Jakku.” _Oh?_ “But everywhere my feet touched the ground, the sand turned to soil beneath them.” _Oh…_ Closing her eyes, she sighs comfortably, “I planted a garden…”

An image of her, grinning with fingers stained by dirt as she sows into rich soil, passes through his mind and he suddenly wants very much to see her like that again. “That’s all?” he asks, not patronizingly, simply surprised by the uncomplicated whimsy of the dream.

“That’s all,” she repeats back, smiling. But then her nose twitches, face beginning to fall. “I was alone though…”

Ben’s stomach drops. That little statement plants conviction within him and he knows he needs to tell her about his own dream. She deserves that transparency from him. “So was I,” his voice is hushed as her eyes meet his, nonplussed. “In my nightmare,” he finishes.

“Oh,” Rey whispers, comprehending, and something akin to desperation crosses her features. But when she tilts her head, pressing her nose into his cheek and capturing his lips, she’s delicate. Ghosting barely-there kisses against his skin, teasing him with her warmth. She pulls back, making to speak, “Why were y— Mmph!” But he chases after her lips, crushing into them more forcefully than intended. Though she chuckles regardless, grasping his chin and pushing him away gently, diluted glee in her eyes. “Why were you alone?”

Letting out a long breath, he starts, “I was a Padawan again, looking for my kyber crystal and—” Then he thinks of her dream floating about in his mind, deciding that might be a more effective form of communication. “Can I show you?” he tries.

Rey’s lips part, the reality of his request settling over her. He’s never offered to open himself to her like this; he’s given her thoughts, yes, and images before him, but never memories, never _dreams_. She lets out a low ‘yes’, bringing her hand to his cheek and flicking her eyes closed, waiting.

Ben imagines a door at the front of his mind, imagines sliding it open, imagines welcoming her in with open arms. He doesn’t feel anything at first, only the heightened buzz of their bond, but when she touches her forehead to his he gasps. He’s not unaccustomed to having his mind probed, it was Snoke’s preferred mode of punishment because he could make it _hurt_. Make him suffer each grueling claw ripping through his thoughts, taking and taking and taking until his brain felt like shredded flesh. Never bothering to stitch him back together.

But Rey… Rey is careful. Cautious.

She drifts through his nightmare, her consciousness brushing against his own almost pleasantly, not once prodding into more than he elects to show her. And he finds his chest tightening, his eyes burning at her gentleness. He knows how much pain she could inflict upon him like this because he’s done so to her. Forced himself into her most private memories, gathering information he was both ordered and not ordered to retrieve. No better than Snoke.

“Stop,” he whimpers, already pulling away, “please…”

She obliges him, her breath hitching close to his lips as she recedes, “Ben…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he breathes, chanting as he rolls onto his back. 

She sits up swiftly, her confusion evident, paired with…pity? “What are you—”

“Rey, I’m so sorry…” He’s crying again. Why does he keep doing that? In front of her, no less.

One of her hands smooths his hair back while the other wipes the moisture from his cheeks. “For?” she asks, far more composed than he. _Everything…_ he wants to say, wants to curl in on himself, wants to unburden her from all that he’s put through. “Y’know,” her eyes turn glassy, recalling something, “I've have nightmares too, night terrors when I was little. You don’t have anything to be asha—”

“That’s not what I mean.” He sighs, shifting away from her touch, facing the shadows of their room.

She says nothing and he watches her drop down onto her haunches out the corner of his eye; She feels dejected through the bond. But when she scratches a hand over his back he doesn’t stop her. “Did that really happen,” she asks after a moment, “your dream?” Her voice borders on fury, surprisingly enough.

He shakes his head. “No, not most of it.”

“But you’ve been to that cave before.” It’s not a question, somehow she knows it to be true.

“It’s where I found my kyber crystal.” He swallows, bile rising in his throat at the memory. At _any_ memory with Skywalker for that matter. Humming for him to continue, Rey lies back down on her side and wraps her arms around him from behind. It’s...nice; she’s never done that before. “I spent the whole trip back to Skywalker’s temple working on my saber.”

She kisses between his shoulder blades — he suppresses a shiver — and murmurs into his skin, “What happened to it?”

“My lightsaber?” He feels her nod against his back. “I still have it,” he answers and she lets out a stifled ‘oh’. “It’s gone through some modifications over the years,” he says dimly and senses a flare of discomfort in her. But it’s readily replaced by the curiosity that never seems to part from her. She wants to know more.

“A few months after I was shipped off to Skywalker I started training with wooden sabers, just memorizing forms and such, and he would tell me these stories about his father’s lost lightsaber. The one you have now…” He pauses, tamping down the pang of jealousy in his gut. “Of course, I didn’t know Anakin Skywalker and Vader were the same man at the time.” Rey rustles against him, no doubt recalling the information she’d extracted from him regarding his grandfather on _Starkiller_. “But I revered his saber just the same and the significance Skywalker put behind it when he told me about all of it’s ‘adventures’, if you will. He had no holos of it, so I would pester him about the details. I wanted to know what it looked like because, in my mind, with everything I’d been told, it was the epitome of heroism. And I wanted to be…” His words stop at the clump in his throat and he feels pity swell within Rey again. Then something else, something like infuriated want, but he shakes his head and continues, “So when Skywalker told me the saber had a blue blade, I associated the color with that heroism and strength and, I don’t know, everything a child wants to achieve, I suppose.”

“That’s why it’s your favorite,” Rey murmurs, satisfied, her question finally answered after twelve hours of him skirting around the subject.

“Yes,” he mumbles, more self-conscious of the admission than he thought he would be.

“And your lightsaber, the crystal you found, was it—”

“Blue? Yes,” he finishes for her, an unwelcome sense of longing washing over him.

“What happened to it? What made it…not blue?” she asks clunkily, clearly trying not to offend him.

Exhaling nervously, he shifts around to face her, tugging her chest against his and burying his nose in her hair. He’s better at talking when he can see her. “What do you know about kyber crystals?” he starts, not wanting to explain too little or too much.

“I know they’re Force responsive, uh, they power lightsaber blades, call out to Force users, that’s about it,” she replies almost professionally, like reading from a list.

“That _is_ about it, actually, but they’re also alive in a way. The color the crystal takes on is entirely dependent on the Force user that finds it, that’s called to it.” Rey’s eyebrows arch under his chin in interest, learning something new. “And since they’re ‘alive’, they can be bled which produces a red crystal.”

“So you bled yours,” she mutters contemplatively. “How did you do that?”

“I imbued it with the Dark Side.” He doesn’t hesitate in telling her, knowing she wants a straight answer, but she tenses at his words still, drawing into herself slightly. “Except I didn’t do it right,” he rushes, not wanting her to shut him out. “I over-extended myself and cracked my crystal. It hasn’t worked the same since.”

She softens against him a bit and he sighs, relieved as she tilts her head up to look at him expectantly. “So that’s why your blade is all—” She makes a rather frightening whooshing noise with her mouth and digs her nails into his chest lightly, shaking her fingers to emulate electricity…static?

And he laughs. Laughs a shoulder-bouncing, teary-eyed, side-splitting laugh, forgetting the strain of his thoughts, of his nightmare. And Rey laughs too, eyes glistening in wonder as she looks up at him, seeming to take him in. Even after their laughter subsides into chuckles, into hums, into smiles, she stares at him like she’d stared at the sky that morning. “What?” he asks, lightness in his voice.

“I didn’t know you could smile like that,” she offers, her tone dreamy.

_I’ve smiled at you plenty of times_ , he thinks. How could he not when she’s alive and _with him_?

_“I know, but that was different, that was…”_ Her hand trails up to his face, the pads of her fingers finding his lips as she whispers aloud, “Beautiful…”

He laughs again, short and disbelieving, but he can’t hide the blush creeping onto his ears. “Shouldn’t I be the one calling you that?” he says, working as much sarcasm into the question as he can.

“Hmm...” She hooks her ankles around his and smirks. “You still can,” she snorts. “If you want.”

And there he is, smiling at her, yet again. _How does she do that?_ “I do, but I think I might need to find a more suitable word, if you’ll let me.”

Her cheeks flush and he congratulates himself silently, hoping he would get to see her turn rosy in the dim light of their crew cabin. She huffs and rolls her eyes, teasing, “Fine, but don’t take too long.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“You do that,” she rumbles tiredly, tucking herself into him, ear against his heart.

There’s something to be said about sleeping next to someone like this. About getting to hold the little fire of their body against your own while your breaths fall into rhythm with each other. About realizing they’re embracing you as well, _wanting_ you, feeling all that you’re feeling in return. Ben had never pegged himself as someone who would savor it as much as he does, but then again, he’d always assumed he wouldn’t get the chance. But now — now that he’s held Rey and Rey’s held him, balancing on the edge of something far deeper than connection — he fears he may never be able to live without it.

**————————**

_Supreme Leader Hux…_ And all he had to do was walk into a room, prepared to update Snoke of the Resistance’s retreat. Ren had taken care of the grunt work for him, blind to the Order he was helping to restore in the galaxy, the brute. It was almost too good to be true. Of course, disposing of _the body_ had been tricky, but pay a sanitation worker the right amount of credits and they’ll keep anything a secret.

And he has the credits now to do all that and more, _Supreme Leader Hux…_

His father had always told him he would never amount to anything in the galaxy, but he’d underestimated his son’s resolve. His ‘untimely’ death proved evidence enough of that. Proved that his son wouldn’t allow even family to withhold him from his purpose. And, true enough, nothing can withhold the Supreme Leader from _anything_ , not anymore.

Still, he’s found himself in a rather unfortunate predicament despite his new status: Ren and the little scavenger rat.

He should have known something like this would've happened when Ren collected the girl a little over a week ago, should have planned for her to cause trouble. And now, rather than extending the arm of Order to the galaxy’s remaining free systems, he’s on a wild Bantha chase after the traitor and his sand rat. He would gladly ignore them, gladly force Ren out of his mind and pretend the nuisance had never existed. But if the girl led him back to Organa and her rebels, integral First Order information would be at the hands of the Resistance, and that cannot stand.

_“Supreme Leader,”_ the comm on Hux’s now much larger desk buzzes to life with the modulated voice of a stormtrooper. _“The witness you requested is here.”_

Hux straightens in his seat, readjusting the collar of his new cloak. He hadn’t sought out much of an upgraded wardrobe for his position, not wanting to waste precious time on trivial matters such as opulence. That had been one of Snoke’s many downfalls. Perhaps if his guards had been more practically uniformed he would still be alive. So Hux’s clothes are much the same as before, immaculately ironed and glossy black, the only variation now being the cape. Billowing, black, and leather with crimson ribbing on the edges, a carbon and silver clasp of the First Order insignia keeping it in place on his shoulders. It’s subtle without lacking refinement, imposing, just the effect he’s going for.

“Send him in,” he orders, unlocking the entrance to his private office and pulling up the wanted holo of Ren and the girl on Naboo.

Flanked by two stormtroopers, an elderly man in a grease-stained mechanic’s jumpsuit shuffles into the room, surveying everything around him with the eye of a tactician, oddly enough. The rich, black decor of the office contrasting almost comically with his braided white hair and frazzled beard; The man exudes a stifling warmth and the chaos that comes from spending too long successfully avoiding the law. Hux wrinkles his nose as the man comes to a halt before his desk, troopers holding him in place by his upper arms.

“Pretty nice ship ya got here, Mr. Supreme Leader,” the man says bluntly, voice echoing off the black granite floors largely. “Although I heard the real guns went to the wayside with your old head-honcho, huh?”

Hux feels his eye twitch at the audacity of the comment, — the _Finalizer_ is a perfectly adequate First Order sky base for the time being — but brushes it off, “Lyqu Dekle, is it?” he queries despite knowing everything he needs to know regarding the man, wanting him to believe himself insignificant to the greater issue at hand. “My intel informs me that you’re a speeder repairman, is that correct?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, the troopers tightening their grip on him. “I sell ‘em, too. Speeder bikes as well.”

“I see,” Hux eyes the holo on his desk before continuing, Dekle has yet to look at it. “But you’re also in the business of buying, are you not?”

“This is about the shuttle, isn’t it?”

“On the contrary,” he finally points to the image of Ren and the scavenger, “I requested your presence to discuss the individuals you acquired said shuttle from. Though I’ll have you know, the sale and purchase of active-use, military-grade vessels is highly illegal, especially under the market. That is how you came by the craft, is it not?”

The man scoffs, “Ya didn’t request my presence, ya removed me from my home.”

Hux had, of course, ordered Dekle to be brought on board the _Finalizer_ with force should the need arise when they’d arrived in the Naboo System. But he feigns ignorance, responding flatly, “Shame, I’ll have to have a word with my troopers. But you must understand, Mr. Dekle, I received word from an eye witness of these two fugitives,” he points to the holo once more, “that she sent them your way before realizing who they were. And you were seen by a fair few transporting them to a shipyard in Theed. Yet you, the individual presumably in closest proximity with these criminals, never reported them to your authorities. Why is that, Mr. Dekle?”

Shifting his weight between his feet, the old mechanic’s eyes dart to the holo and squint, half-heartedly examining it. “I got a real bad short term memory, Mr. Supreme Leader, maybe if ya told me their names I’d remember 'em.” One corner of Dekle’s mouth ticks upward as he finishes and Hux knows he’s being toyed with.

Nevertheless, he plays the part, “I’m afraid that’s classified information, but I find it difficult to believe you’d forget from whom you purchased an Upsilon-class shuttle.”

“If you’re tryin’ to find ‘em so bad, why keep their names a secret?” he fires back and Hux gets the overwhelming sense that this is far from the first time the old man has been interrogated.

Smiling wryly at him, Hux shuts off his holo. If he had broadcasted that _Kylo Ren_ — Snoke’s personal _dog_ — was now the First Order’s fugitive-number-one his complications would have doubled in size, perhaps tripled. Ren’s brains would have been fried by the first citizen to lay eyes on him if that transmission had gone out, and Hux can’t have that. He needs him alive to corral his wretched Knights back to the Order, the hellish war-mongers that they are, then they can all face the gruesome execution they so deserve. 

Hux has no room for mystic heathens the likes of them running amuck in his new galaxy, bleeding power from his regime. But he also can’t have worlds falling under the impression that the Order fractured enough after the losses in the Crait System for their champion brute to abandon them. More would rally to Organa’s cause if they believed such things. _No…_ “I apologize, Mr. Dekle, but once again, their names are classified.”

“Well then, I’m afraid I can’t help ya...” The mechanic smirks, satisfied, thinking he’s won.

“It would appear so,” Hux concedes, an equally satisfied feeling swarming in his chest. “I trust you’ll part peacefully if I send you with only one guard, yes?” he asks, waving the trooper at his left closer to his desk.

Dekle is already turning toward the exit when he calls back, a forced smile donning his wrinkled face, “Certainly, your _Majesty_.”

Once the grimy old man is out of sight and he’s alone with the trooper he’d held behind, Hux’s lip curls in disgust. “I want him detained and executed,” he says placidly, powering his holo back on and informing the bridge to set a course for the Eadu system. More witnesses from which to receive intel. “Make it public as well, as a warning.”

“But, sir—” the trooper mutters, baffled.

Hux turns to the white-clad soldier sharply and orders, “What’s your identification number?” Ready to make note should she speak out again.

Her back straightens at the question and he can hear her swallow, “PV-1109.”

“PV-1109, is the underground purchase of First Order weaponry not a punishable offense?”

“It is, sir.”

He huffs, even if it wasn’t he’d have the old street rat executed for withholdment of the truth. “Then I see no reason for hesitation. Carry on.”


	10. Someone She Remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leia struggles to process what Luke had told her about Ben. Rey struggles to recall something just out of her memory's reach.

Eyes. Every time Leia closes hers she sees his. 

Ben’s.

Sometimes he’s a newborn, peering up at her with expectant, grey irises before the russet color she so adored had set in.

Sometimes he’s a toddler, tears pouring over his flushed cheeks as he cried for Han or herself.

Sometimes he’s a ten-year-old boy, gaze trained on the floor, one hand in his uncle’s while the other waved goodbye.

And sometimes he’s a delusion, a figment of her imagination. A teenager surveying the galaxy with curiosity and intrigue. A young man with a twinkle in his eye just like his father’s. Or an adult smiling winsomely at her, crinkles just beginning to form at the corners of his warm, warm gaze.

But worst of all is when she pictures the green light of her brother’s saber glinting off of those eyes. The very same saber that had aided in the destruction of the Empire, that had helped train her in the ways of the Force, threatening the life of her son, _her boy_.

Leia swallows down the bile rushing up her throat.

_“I saw darkness in his mind and acted on a fool’s instinct,”_ Luke had told her. _“I regret it every day, I’m sorry…”_

She’d had to leave her brother’s hut after that, — the very air had felt rotten — hurriedly passing the rubble of where _he_ had been, where Luke had seen _him_. The feeling of familiarity surrounding the ruins settling into place in her mind. But even that small comfort had grown taxing with the swell of Luke’s signature trailing after her, making her chest ache.

_“I’ll come with you, Leia. With the Resistance,”_ he’d promised her, conceding. _“I’ll make things right. Let me try.”_

Could he fix this? Right his wrongs and all they’ve spurred? She’s not so sure now. How can he inspire others to join this cause when its leader, his own sister, doesn’t believe in him? Not like she used to… 

_“Leia, please, listen to me! I’ll do anything!”_ He’d called after her as she’d stormed back to the _Falcon_ , _“What do you need me to do?”_

_“I need you to stop talking!”_ She’d shot back.

_“Leia—“_

_“Dameron will brief you on the dilemma we’ve found ourselves in. He’ll tell you everything you need to know and get you settled…”_

_“Dameron who?”_

_“I’ll send him out!”_ She’d barked, the end of her cane clanking up the Falcon’s boarding ramp bitterly. _“Wait there!”_

It’s been nearly a full day since she spoke with him yet her gut still churns, the thought of his confession making her sight blear. So she closes her eyes for reprieve, to push down the sting of betrayal before it falls wetly over her cheeks. But she’s faced with the memory of her son then.

Had he been frightened? Had he felt as betrayed as she feels now? How could he not have?

She sighs, shifting on the worn mattress of the ‘private’ quarters’ bunk. At least, it used to be private, when the freighter belonged to Han.

Leia had tried to busy herself after sending Dameron to collect her brother. Tried to contact more allies and seek out bases to regroup, Ajan Kloss seeming their best option at the moment with its semi-prepped hangar from the old Rebellion. Though its relative proximity to the First Order’s hub on Dantooine could prove cause for worry or caution at the very least.

But she had spent much too long pouring over maps and contacts with Artoo and Connix, hoping to work the stress out of her system, avoiding her twin. Long enough that the young Lieutenant had caught her lids growing heavy, drifting shut, and sent her to rest. Assuring her that she would handle the allies transmissions from there, and Leia had been in no mood to argue.

Yet lying back on the old bunk she’d spent many a night in had put her on edge rather than lulling her into a much-needed sleep. Hours upon hours of tossing under the covers, willing the image of her son’s frightened eyes to leave her mind but it never doing so.

She hates this. Hates that having the answers makes her wish she’d never sought them out in the first place. Hates that she’ll have to look at her brother and _know_.

A knock comes on the quarters’ threshold before the door slides open. She expects Dameron or even her brother to be standing on the other side but is met instead by Finn, the downturn of his mouth looks almost sickened. “Oh, you’re awake,” he mutters, flatly surprised.

“Have been since turning in,” she supplies, keeping her voice as amiable as she can given the _circumstances_. “I’m assuming you have news of some sort?”

He swallows thickly, his sickened expression only deepening, “Uh, yes. You’ll— You’ll want to see for yourself.”

_That can’t be good._

Leia sits up in the small bed, tugs her shoes back on, and follows him down the corridor. “Where’s Dameron?” She prods, needing to fill the silence between them.

“He’s talking with Skywa—, er, your brother. They're in the cockpit, he asked me to get you.”

“Ah.” Of course Luke has to be in the cockpit.

She hears their muffled voices down the hall, sounding just shy of heated, and catches Connix and Chewie flecked into the conversation as well. But when the door slides open all discussion in the room sputters out, every set of eyes latching onto her. She zeroes in on her twin sitting comfortably in the copilot’s seat and it irks her how at home he looks there. Despite the years gone by, despite what he’s done.

Her brow furrows on its own accord.

But before she can ask what’s going on Luke’s gruff voice cuts through the quiet, “What did they _do_?”

Leia sneers, “You’ll have to expound, I’m afraid.”

“Here,” Dameron sets a hand on her shoulder, redirecting her attention to the holonet on the control panel, no doubt attempting to dispel any added tension from the already tense room.

Connix fiddles with the display, pulling up what seems like the thousandth First Order newsfeed Leia’s seen in these past five days. There’s a blip of a newscaster and then the holo shifts, what appears to be a Star Destroyer’s hangar bay filled to the brim with stormtroopers and officers flashes before her. Then the holo focuses in on the bright shock of Hux’s orange head and an older man — bound hand and foot — in front of him. 

The Supreme Leader stands on a pedestal above the man, hands tucked behind his back and shoulders squared, with what is unmistakably an executioner trooper waiting beside him, laser ax in hand.

Leia feels her blood run cold, already piecing together exactly what Hux’s intent is behind this.

_“Five days ago,”_ he starts, nose upturned, _“an urgent transmission was sent out to the citizens of the galaxy regarding two fugitives of the Order. Several more had followed, tracking their whereabouts and prompting your cooperation in bringing these criminals to justice. Many have already offered up information and evidence of their sightings, doing their part to ensure security in the galaxy. But some,”_ his colorless eyes flit down to the white-haired man before him, _“have neglected to share their knowledge pertaining to the fugitives, refusing even to turn them in when presented with the opportunity.”_ And he’s preening now, receiving too much satisfaction from the order he’s about to give, _“Let this serve as an admonition.”_

Hux motions the executioner forward and lifts his chin, the repulsive hint of a smile tugging on his pale lips. The old man tucks his head, not a trace of panic in his eyes, and it strikes Leia that Hux hadn’t even mentioned his name, that he’d stripped him of that honor, slight as it is.

And then, without an ounce of ceremony, the trooper’s ax rises and falls.

The severing is clean and cauterized, but that doesn’t stop Leia’s stomach from dropping, her gaze following the roll of the nameless man’s head. She hears Dameron swear behind her as Connix shuts off the HoloNet, sounding more disbelieving than disgusted.

If Hux is willing to put this much effort into tracking down Ben and Rey, intimidating the galaxy into submission so publicly, it makes her wonder if something larger is at play regarding their escape. And suddenly, her brother’s question from before proves exactly the question that needs answering.

“What did they _do_?”

**————————**

“You need to widen your stance,” Ben pants, backing away from her and wiping the sweat from his brow. “You’ll lose your balance if you keep your left foot in like that.”

Rey lowers her saber, peeved, shifting her weight. “I don’t recall asking for a lesson,” she remarks, somehow managing to keep the annoyance from her voice.

“Not a lesson,” he adjusts his form, lifting his blade, “just a note.”

She hums, “Still didn’t ask for it,” rolling her wrist and lunging at him, bare feet pounding against the durasteel floor of the ship’s cargo hold. He parries her effortlessly, twisting his hilt in his palm, edging her blade closer to his crossguard, pushing her down with his weight. But she spins out from the hold and swings backhanded at his ribs, forcing him to bend away from the strike, giving her open access to his torso.

“Fair enough,” he offers and she springs forward, eyes rounding in excitement as he manages to block her in just enough time for it to be effective.

A smug smile tugs on her lips and she backs away, granting him the opportunity to strike back while she lowers her center a gravity into a defensive position. He huffs, twirling his saber and skirting around her in a half-circle, trying to catch her by surprise. But they both know that won’t work. 

It can’t.

She knows his every lunge, swing, and parry as if it were her own, and he, hers. It makes sparring with him redundant in a way, but it pushes her more than she thinks it would with anyone else. Pushes her to be craftier, agile, _aggressive_ , and he doesn’t hold back. She doesn’t want him to, not when she can guess so effectively what his next move will be.

He’s the first _person_ she’s ever sparred with, she’d worked with her staff on Jakku, of course. But all she’d had to practice hits on were oversized junk heaps and the walls of her meager home. Nothing to block her strikes, to strain her muscles with push and pull, to make her _sweat_ like she is now. _Profusely_.

The hilt of her saber feels slick in her hand and she finds herself readjusting her grip more and more the longer they contend. Each block and swing sloppier than the last until she’s caught against his crossguard again.

She draws in a steadying breath, preparing to twirl out of the lock when her eyes catch on the right side of his face. Watching the scar on his cheek all but vanish in the pulsing, blue light of her blade. It’s mesmerizing, not for the sudden smoothness of his skin but for the way he looks when she scans over the rest of his face: younger somehow, almost like a boy, like someone she _remembers_.

_Is this what he looked like before he…_ she wonders, not daring to finish the thought.

Then a long leg tucks behind her thighs, — off-setting her balance — while a large hand wraps around her own, deactivating her saber and throwing it across the room. His follows soon after and they’re tumbling onto the durasteel floor, entirely ungraceful but entirely enthusiastic. Ben loops an arm around her back as he slants his mouth over hers and she giggles in her throat.

She knew they would end up like this when he’d asked to spar with her at breakfast, _hoped_ they would even. The only reason they hadn’t in their ‘session’ two mornings ago was her hips still being sore. But she’s far less concerned about that now she’s spent nearly five days getting by on insistent hands and eager mouths alone. She wants the warmth of connection, both physical and whatever it is that binds them to one another, blooming from her core again. _Needs_ it.

“I hope you don’t do this with everyone you spar with,” she goads, musing his sweat-damp hair and wrapping a leg around his waist.

“Oh, yeah, the Knights and I would go at it like this all the time,” he fires back snidely, nipping down her neck and pulling at the collar of her tunic with his teeth.

“You’re terrible,” she laughs, swatting the back of his head.

“You like it,” he murmurs as his hand finds its way under the hem of her sleep shirt, skimming across her ribs to cup her breast. 

She rolls her eyes and hooks an arm over his shoulders, using all of her weight to drag him down onto his back, drawing a confused ‘uh’ from his lips before she straddles him. 

His breath stutters as she shifts above him, red burning across his heaving chest, pupils dilating until his eyes are almost black. “What?” Rey whispers tauntingly, “I told you I’d be on top next time, didn’t I?” He swallows, nodding vehemently, his gaze roaming over her chest, plainly cursing her shirt for obstructing his view. “Wanna help me get this off?” She asks, trying her best not to laugh as she tugs at the sweaty fabric.

“What a pointless question,” he scoffs, canting forward to peel the tunic over her head, tossing it aside as if it had personally offended him. “And it could be avoided entirely if you just didn’t wear a shirt.”

She chuckles, eyes tracking over his bare torso, “I’m afraid not everyone is as bold as you.” 

“Mmh, we’ll have to work on that,” he murmurs and devours her chest, teeth and tongue and lips, holding to her ribcage, pushing her closer and closer to the floor, likely thinking she won’t notice.

“Uh-uh,” she shoves him with a smirk, pressing his shoulders back into the durasteel. “You’re staying right there, big guy.”

“Oh? And how to plan on keeping me here?” he purrs, raising up on his forearms and quirking a brow at her. “I’m almost twice your si—”

Rey draws her hips back, grinding against the growing hardness below her center and shivering as a spark shoots up her spine. But the sensation isn’t nearly as satisfying as the way Ben’s head flies back, his arms giving out as the most helpless, little whine she’s ever heard passes through his lips.

“What were you saying?” She gasps, rolling against him again.

“That I’m— I’m—“ Another drag of her hips, “That you’re going to be the death of me…” He groans, arching his back and grabbing her waist, short nails marking her skin.

“I certainly hope not! Who would braid my hair?” She exclaims, bringing a hand up to the elaborate style he’d worked into the crown of her head this morning. But a pit forms in her stomach, the back of her mind loathing the idea of Ben…not being around.

She lifts her chin. _Stop thinking…_

“I’m going to ruin your hair if you keep doing that,” he growls after another carefully exaggerated roll of her hips.

Leaning back, she croons, “Show me,” and he’s on her. Thick fingers tangling into her braided tresses as their chests collide. His tongue dragging languidly over hers while he pulls the length of her body back down on top of his.

Rey sighs. She doubts she’ll ever grow accustomed to the way her heart feels so close to his, perfectly in time, every beat attuned within their rib cages. Nor will she grow accustomed to how _enthusiastically_ his body responds to hers. The friction between them making her stomach quiver in anticipation.

Her fingers fly to the waistband of his pants, tugging down on the fabric impatiently. But he’s too distracted with her lips to register her intent so she tugs on his hair instead, diverting his attention downward as she sits up. He lifts his hips — making her task a tad simpler — and she fumbles again with his waistband, chiding breathily, “And _this_ could be avoided if you just didn’t wear pants.”

“I might,” he snickers. “For you…”

“I’m flattered,” she hums, finally shirking the damned piece of clothing off his legs — along with his undershorts — and crawling back up his body.

Taking him in hand, she presses a kiss to his temple, his head lolling to the side as he gasps beneath her. “But— But I—,” he stutters, eyes finding hers again, hands clasping over her thighs. “I could say the same about you, and that means you’re—” her teeth graze down the column of his throat, nipping at his collarbone and he hisses. “You’re far more difficult to undress than I am,” he finally states, a palm reaching between their bodies to rub against her clit through the thin fabric of her pants; She goes a little limper at the touch than she cares to admit. “So I _win_ …”

“Win what?” She barks amusedly, releasing her grip on him to tear off her final offending articles of clothing.

“The argument,” he says matter-of-factly and sits up, watching her pull her pant legs down over her ankles, smirking loathsomely.

“Oh, really?” She flings the garments behind her indiscriminately, “I wasn’t aware we were arguing.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he reaches for her again, clutching her waist and dragging her closer. “I still won.”

“Who says?” She parries, settling herself into his lap.

“I say,” he murmurs raggedly, then something readily approaching mischief flashes in his eyes. “Because I said so…”

She hums, stretching up to kiss his nose and raising her hips _just so_ , “Don’t you think that’s an improper use of your ‘because I said so’ liberties?”

He opens his mouth — no doubt to dispute — but whatever he’d planned on saying is forgotten as Rey lowers herself brusquely onto his cock, freeing a guttural sob from the back of his throat. But she realizes too little too late that, despite the satisfaction of witnessing him unravel before her, it would have been wise to take this particular dive a tad slower, her walls burning in protest to her impulse decision. 

“ _Fuck_ , Rey,” he groans, glaring down at the juncture of their bodies. “Were you—”

“No,” she curses, craning her neck and resting her forehead atop his shoulder. “No, I was not ready.”

Wriggling her hips, she tries to adjust her position, tries to alleviate the twinge in her core but only manages to make it worse. Ben takes in a pointed breath next to her ear as she seethes into his skin. “Hold on,” he mumbles, “hold on.” And his fingers trail down her abdomen, finding her clit and circling methodically. She shudders against him, hooking her arms around his neck and rocking forward carefully at the touch. And it stings but in an almost pleasant way. _Almost_.

“Have you ever wondered if we get too ahead of ourselves?” He chuckles into her hair, arching his wrist, coaxing a whine out of her.

“You think?” She breathes, inclining her head back to catch his eyes exasperatedly and he laughs. Not to the same extent as he had last night but it’ll do for now. She’ll just have to come up with more creative techniques for drawing smiles like that out of him.

“I think it’s likely,” he tips his head, touching the end of his nose to hers, “ _highly_ likely…”

And something about the way he leans forward shifts his cock within her _just right_ and her eyes flutter closed. _There it is…_ Connection. Oneness. _Perfect_.

“Oh—” Rey lets her head roll back, reveling in the warm pressure suddenly sans pain. “That’s—”

“You have freckles on your eyelids,” Ben interrupts, his voice thin but no less fascinated.

She simpers, bemused, “What?”

“On your eyelids…” He repeats, looking quite like a boy again having discovered something new and in need of investigating.

He cups her face, forefingers and thumbs tracing over her brows, her cheekbones. Gaze flicking between her eyes, perhaps counting said freckles. And taking notice he’s forgotten his ministrations in pursuit of his curiosity, Rey huffs petulantly — albeit affectionately — and picks up where he left off. Working her clit with one hand and brushing his tousled hair back with the other.

The first small, hampered moan to fall from her lips is enough to snap him back to reality and he lets out an affronted ‘oh’ of realization as she laughs at him. “You are so unusual…” She mutters, peppering kisses along his jaw, swirling her hips experimentally.

“My apologies,” he tilts his head and catches her lips, pushing up into her attentively.

She hums in approval, arching her back for a better angle, “You’re forgiven.” And she rocks forward once, twice, three times, setting a rhythm, placing her hands on his shoulders for support. His rest on the small of her back as he works to match her pace, but his thrusts are shallow still and that is _far_ from what she wants.

Trying to coerce him into going deeper, she raises up the slightest bit on her knees and lowers herself back down. Reeling against him because _that_ is an interesting sensation. Somehow fuller than the last time he’d been inside her, and instead of a sharp ache diffusing through her body, it’s a burst of bright pleasure.

_Oh…_

He must feel it too if the dazed look he’s giving her is any indication. And when she does it again they moan in unison. _All right, okay, keep doing that…_ she thinks, the encouragement breaking through the heaviness of her mind as she continues to rock against his chest.

His fingertips dance across her back, featherlight at first and then pressing, urgent, _searching_. Hers do the same over his shoulders but before she can increase her tempo anymore he’s gathering her into him, doing it for her. His hips pushing up and up and harder and harder, yet his lips find her cheek softly. Separate from the near frenzied motion of their bodies. She sighs.

In some way, that infinitesimal act of tenderness amid _all this_ makes her heart race faster than any form of exertion ever could. And, oh, how sublime his name sounds on her tongue in response to it, how _familiar_.

“Rey,” he whispers in return, brushing his cheek along hers. “Rey, Rey, Rey…” And her name is an invocation, a plea for her to never stop. To never leave him.

_I won’t…_ She assures, not after all she’s risked to find him. Chasing that flare of belonging across the stars in what anyone with sense would have called a fool’s errand. But if _this_ is her reward for being a fool, she wishes to be nothing else.

And before long, that unreservedly welcome fire in her skin — in her core — burns her into senselessness. Has her muttering nonsense against his neck, begging for something just out of her reach as their hips meet again and again, feverishly.

_“Kiss me,”_ he sends her, mouth undoubtedly incapable of forming the words, _“kiss me, please.”_ And who is she to deny him, to deny herself? 

Lifting her heavy, heavy head from his shoulder, she brings her lips to his lazily, coiling her fingers through his hair as a mewl rises in his throat. His hands clamp hard around her hips, nails digging into her blazing skin, teeth pulling at her bottom lip and she _knows_ he’s close. Can feel it in the strain of his muscles, in the increasing stiffness of his spine. But rather than thrust faster up into her, he _slows down_. Releasing her mouth and kissing down her neck, biting gently at the slope where her shoulder begins and she sighs one of those dramatic sighs she had assumed only he could produce.

Curving her stomach against his, she takes over the pace again, though she doesn’t change it by much because it’s rather nice like this, isn’t it? _Feeling_ every little movement, letting it carry her closer and closer. Letting her head fall back and her lips part in something like surrender.

He kisses the underside of her chin, murmuring a word she can’t quite hear into her skin over and over.

Rey doesn’t know if it’s the low tremor of his voice or the incessant stoking of the flame in her core that brings about her release. Or perhaps even the fleeting second of double vision does it, of accidentally reaching into his thoughts and seeing herself. Sweat glistening down her exposed throat just before his lips latch on to her pulse point wetly.

All she knows is one moment her knees are bracketed on either side of his hips, back rolling in rhythm with his thrusts, and the next she’s soaring off into the stars.

Somewhere in her blissed out brain, she has it in her to laugh at her own surprise. Orgasms like this shouldn’t catch her off guard anymore. But the memory of a _comfortless_ girl seeking the elusive _comfort_ of sleep through Jakku nights by any means necessary still sits heavy in her mind. The memory of brisk, ungratifying release and then numbness.

Nothing like this.

This is a new galaxy to explore with each wave rippling through her. This is connection, the _comfort_ she’d spent years running towards but never arriving. This is fingertips worshipping her skin as she drifts back down, lips shaped like her name kissing her back into consciousness.

No, nothing is like this. Nothing in all the galaxy, all the Universe.

“Rey—” Ben’s voice filters through her ears, strangled and breathless. He’s still pushing up into her, but his thrusts are haphazard, eyes glassy and fixed on her alone.

She doesn’t know how she convinces her limp, unamenable body to move, but somehow she manages, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing sloppy kisses into his cheek. Her breath hitching at the almost abrasive way he moves within her, lips tracking over his jaw, teeth scraping at his skin.

“Fuck, Rey, I’m—” She closes her lips around his earlobe and _sucks_. He groans, locking his arms around her like a vice, burying his nose in her hair and he’s spilling over _inside of her_. And what a strange, idyllic feeling it is, the raw heat of it filling her up as he rides out his release.

“Yes,” she finds herself rasping, “yes…” Wanting to always be this close to him, to feel his heart race and his spine shiver.

When he finally comes back to himself, he tries to kiss her with eyes still closed but misses narrowly, landing on the corner of her mouth instead, and she sniggers. He lies back on the durasteel then, grinning with a youthful air, drawing her down with him. And Rey experiences two not-entirely-welcome sensations: Him going soft and sliding out her, leaving her void and a little cold if she’s being honest, and her knees straightening after spending who knows how long bent, pressing into the metal flooring.

“Oh,” she cringes, lowering her forehead to his sternum.

“What is it?” There’s a hint of panic in his hushed question.

“Knees…” she explains and he sighs through his nose, relieved, then stiffens again.

“You took the birth control, right?”

“Mhm,” she nuzzles deeper into his chest, recalling the little tablet she’d popped onto her tongue the night before, how insignificant and unaffecting it had seemed as she swallowed it. But she preferred it to the other options she’d been presented with while in Raxulon: Injections and implants, all requiring reversals or removals of some sort should she change her mind down the line. The pills seemed simplest, easy, something that could pass through her system if she wanted them to, naturally. 

“Good,” she feels him blush, uncharacteristically abashed by the subject as he had been yesterday when she’d made her decision.

Rey tilts her head up, a sated smile pulling at her lips because this is her favorite part: lying atop his chest, letting her body rise and fall with his breaths. He catches a lock of stray hair at her temple and tucks it behind her ear, looking like he might want to say something, but kissing her nose instead.

Then his head falls back, hair pooling around his face like a dark halo and Rey scoots up to see his eyes again. She likes his eyes the best, the expressiveness of them, that she doesn’t even need to read his mind to know what he’s thinking.

_So familiar…_

He runs a knuckle over her cheek, lashes fluttering lazily as he rumbles, “Prepossessing…”

“Hmm?”

“That’s my word for you,” his knuckle trailing over her lips now, “prepossessing.”

_Oh…_

That _is_ quite a word. And it’s nice to be seen that way by someone. Beyond nice, really, when you’ve spent almost the whole of your life not being seen as anything to anyone.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her face growing warm. But damn her and her pestering tongue, “Bit of a mouthful though, isn’t it?” She pries, the slyest of smiles overtaking her features.

“You’re a bit of a mouthful,” he huffs, chest bouncing with laughter.

“Oi, rude!” That only makes him laugh harder, and she can’t complain about that.

“And you’re sweaty.” Well, maybe she can… 

“Speak for yourself,” she ‘harrumphs’, rolling off of him onto her back and, oh, is the floor _cold_.

“Mmh, maybe we need a shower…” He raises up onto his side, tracing his fingers across the underside of her breast as he kisses down her ribs.

She regards him amusedly, — if not a little taken aback — her stomach coiling excitedly in spite of her. “You’re insatiable…” she mutters.

“And you’re not?” His lips work down her abdomen, “Don’t tell me you’re not curious, too.”

“About sex in the shower?” She snorts. “Not particularly, no. Especially not in a sonic.”

Ben flicks his head up, flummoxed, “I thought you said you could fix the water recycling unit?”

It had taken them three days after ‘acquiring’ the freighter to discover that, unlike more advanced ships, theirs did not harbor the most efficient filtration for used water reprocessing. The realization came about when Ben, halfway through a wash, had his water shut off, the sonics powering on automatically and rousing a rather explicit stream of shouting out of him. Rey had found the whole situation far more tickling than he but was able to puzzle out the issue despite her amusement and his ever-persistent frustration.

The problem wasn’t that they were running out of water, but that the filtration system was treating the used water at a lagging pace, cutting off all supply until finished, and simply needed to be replaced. Preferably with a newer model. One they’d purchased yesterday but that she had yet to install.

“I can,” she guarantees, running a hand down his arm. “I just haven’t done it yet.”

“How long would it take you?” He asks, hope shimmering in his near pleading eyes.

She scrunches her nose, calculating the amount of time removing the old filter from its compartment could take. Getting it out would be a cinch, but she’d have to shut down the water heater in all likelihood before installing the replacement filter, resetting the system before powering it back on. And who knows how long that could take in an older ship like this. “A couple of hours, maybe more,” she replies finally.

Ben groans.

“But,” she says, voice low, hooking a finger under his chin and drawing him closer, “there could be enough clean water now for _one_ shower.”

Before she has so much as a chance to gauge his reaction, he’s scooping her up from the floor and throwing her over his shoulder, barreling out of the cargo hold towards the ‘fresher at what she decides must be lightspeed. Their laughter mingling all along the way, sounding so natural in her ears like she might remember this too, somewhere in her subconscious.

Perhaps not, but she still can’t shake the feeling that she _knows him_. That she’s known him for longer than she truly has, all her life even. That somehow, someway, he’s always been there, dormant in the farthest corner of her mind, her soul.

Until now.

Even when she has him under her hands for the second time that day — legs tucked around his waist, steaming water raining over their bodies — it’s on her mind. It’s there when the sonics fire on abruptly and she’s laughing into his skin as he maneuvers them out of the unrelenting airstreams, swearing like mad. It’s there when her fingers are coated in grease, affixing the replacement filter into its slot while Ben floats tools from her new kit contentedly into her palm as she needs them, fusioncutters and wrenches, clamps and sealers. It’s there when his head is settled atop her chest at the end of the day, arms clutching about her middle, soft snores escaping his lips.

It’s there as if repeating the thought again and again could somehow make it true.

_I remember you…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello! It's been five chapters since I said much of anything. Whoops...
> 
> First of all and once again, to everyone who's left comments and kudos, you are all the sweetest and you make my heart do happy little dances! <333
> 
> Second of all and most importantly, I added new tags. Some are purely for fun but others are for realsies. So if you read those last three and flipped a bit, _don't worry!!!_ We won't be getting there for a while. I've been juggling the pregnancy arc since I started writing and finally decided to just go for it. Yay me, I guess... ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	11. Or I'll Miss You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn has a peculiar encounter. Ben takes a little ride on the struggle bus, as they say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie...this one gets angsty...
> 
> I know it's not in the tags but I promise to continue warning you guys for later chapters.

Finn has no clue what’s going on.

Ever since Skywalker shuffled on board the _Falcon_ the days have passed…oddly. Strained. The previous bustle of Resistance refugees about the ship falling away into susurration for fear of disrupting the edge in the air. Not that Skywalker paid much attention to the change.

He saved his voice for the likes of Chewie, Threepio, and Artoo. Poe occasionally, but never the General. In fact, he put great effort into evading her, and she, him, which seemed counter-intuitive considering Leia flew the remainder of the Resistance out of their way to collect him.

It stayed that way until they touched down in a half-completed Rebel bunker on a moon called Ajan Kloss, corners of the base giving way to nature and erosion yet still remaining usable. But the avoidance between brother and sister didn’t remedy itself in actuality, they were just able to put more distance between themselves once removed from the _Falcon_. The only interaction between the two of them since arriving had been a screaming match over a set of old books Skywalker had discovered somewhere on the _Falcon_ , the altercation enough to make even the most audacious Rebels cower away from the scene.

Leia had claimed they wouldn’t be staying at the makeshift base lastingly, just long enough to make contact with Resistance sympathizers and send out more ally transmissions. No doubt clearer than the crackling systems on Solo’s old freighter.

Though Finn hadn’t initially minded the idea of staying for a while, even with the moon’s closeness to the First Order’s base in the Dantooine System. The air is _fresh_ on Ajan Kloss; humid, but fresh, and it smells as close to the color green as anything he can imagine. Unlike the stale, recycled air on the _Falcon_ that had only become more so the longer the Resistance stayed on board.

But they’ve been here for nearly three weeks already. The only two Rebel ‘cells’ to group up with them came from the Naboo System, appalled citizens who claimed to have known the man Hux had executed, citizens who’d finally had enough. It’d been encouraging at the time when they’d arrived with more ships, — a YV-330 light freighter and a converted E-50 ambulance landseer, both small yet useful — but that had been _days_ ago now and no one else has come since.

Though the waiting doesn’t trouble him as much as the lack of information through the waiting.

Since the execution, not a scrap of news pertaining to Rey has surfaced. Only old, rerun transmissions droning that _“This fugitive was last spotted in the Eadu System”_ have been broadcast. An arrant, looping reminder for the ‘noble’ citizens of the galaxy.

It’s driving him mad.

It’s driving him mad being stuck here, even with Poe and Rose to fill his days with company. Even with an uncramped patch of ground to sleep on, not having to switch off in a bunk as he had on the _Falcon_. Even with tasks to busy him: taking Rose on walks to help rebuild her slow-returning balance, making lists of any and all First Order intel he can remember and relaying them to the General, working to clean the aged Rebel base with every other available hand should more ‘cells’ arrive.

Even with all the time-consuming, brain-wracking, sweat-inducing work he can accomplish in a day, he still can’t get it out of his head that he’s failed her. Failed Rey by staying with the Resistance while they regroup rather than searching for her.

But he’d promised Leia he wouldn’t leave. And she’d promised, once they were ready, the Rebels would find Rey and bring her back.

There had been mentions of returning Ren as well, but he’d elected to ignore them. Regardless of the monster being General Organa’s son.

And he makes his distaste for the man known, not only to Leia — when he’s feeling bold enough — but to Poe and Rose as well. Sneering at the very utterance of his name just to drive the point home.

He’d eventually gotten around to asking Poe what he knew of Leia’s son after weeks of gauging when the ‘right time’ was, but the answer he’d received was short and a far cry from particularly knowledgeable.

Poe had never known him outright, they were close in age but had grown up in vastly different star systems, only meeting once or twice, their interactions more of _formalities_ than anything else. Everything he truly knew about the man came from stories Leia had shared with him, grievances over her ‘dead’ son that turned out to be an act, a coverup. And all he had been told was that Ren — Ben, as he and the General have taken to calling him as of recent — was quiet in his youth, virulent at times when his temper flared, but quiet more so than not.

Problem is, that information does _nothing_ to mitigate Finn’s concerns for Rey. Nothing to assure him that she will truly be okay until they can go after her. So he’s left antsy and anxious most days, believing himself slacking in some regard despite the great amount of effort he’s placing into aiding General Organa’s cause.

_Stars_ , he feels useless.

For all that he busies himself during the day when Ajan Kloss’s _own_ two moons rise into the darkening sky, sleep always finds him fitfully. 

And tonight is no different.

He tosses and turns beneath the thin, moth-eaten blanket he’d scrounged up from Solo’s ship. Trying with all his might to make as little noise as feasible in doing so, not wanting to wake Poe and Rose beside him. The three of them forming a row of ‘sleeping’ bodies near the front right corner of the hangar bay, a setup they’d decided on their first night after landing and hadn’t changed since.

But then…tonight _is_ different. Because on top of the stress already weighing heavy in his thoughts, barring him from rest, he has the strange, entirely unwelcome feeling that someone is watching him.

No, _approaching_ him.

Nimble footsteps scraping softly across the bunker’s stone flooring, closer and closer and _closer_.

Finn sits up, casting his gaze through the oppressive dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the faint light of the moons. Then he sees him, _Skywalker_ , about five meters off, his steps cautious, calculated. 

And, assuming the old Jedi is making his way over to speak with Poe, — because who else would it be between the three of them — Finn plops back down onto his side, not caring whether Skywalker sees him do so or not.

But when his footsteps are close enough to gently resound against the floor, when he should be walking past Finn to reach Poe, they stop just beside him instead.

He genuinely doesn’t know what to do so he remains immobile, waiting for the General’s brother to speak or leave or do something. _Anything_.

“Your name’s Finn, right?” The older man inquires eventually, his voice pitched low, barely audible over the buzz of nature just outside the wide hangar bay entrance.

Despite knowing Skywalker is right beside him, Finn startles at his voice anyway, jolting stubbornly under his blanket because he’s said all but two words to the Jedi since his arrival and they were, in fact, ‘I’m Finn’.

“Yes,” he mutters, twisting around to face him.

He can’t make out much in the dim light, but Skywalker looks pained from what he can see, an expression of debate wrestling over his features. “You know Rey,” he says after another moment of contemplation.

Finn sits up again at that, “Yes.”

“You want to go after her?” Skywalker continues, the question vague as if he’s not sure why he’s asking it. Finn isn’t sure either, he rarely sees the General’s brother _mingling_ with the rest of the Rebels, he’s usually on the _Falcon_ or out walking through the moon’s jungles. Doing anything _but_ interacting, especially with the likes of Finn. How would he be privy to his stance on the matter of Rey?

Still, he finds himself calmly replying ‘yes’ for the third time.

Skywalker runs a hand through his beard and asks tentatively, “Would you take a walk with me?”

Finn throws his blanket off but doesn’t stand, his interest piqued but not enough for him to do anything about it just yet, “Why?” _Does he want to find her too? Is he going to suggest leaving?_

“I want to talk with you,” he answers briskly, his toe tapping like Finn’s seen Leia’s do many times if she’s frustrated or imploring.

But Finn sets his jaw, “ _Why_?”

Skywalker lets a terse breath out from his nose, “I need—” he pauses, and something in that pause makes the pounding in Finn’s head ramp-up in its ferocity. “I need to tell you what happened to my nephew.”

**————————**

Ben is uncertain as to where Raxus is in its planetary revolution but assumes the hemisphere they're on is just coming out of its wet season. The leaves in the grove had begun falling a few days ago, which had been picturesque at first, but now the majority of them were subsiding into the pond. Turning the water murky and not the most ideal for swimming.

He had been a little upset about it himself, upset for Rey who’d gone out there almost every day since they arrived on planet. Sometimes with him, asking for a lesson or an assist in whatever she was practicing. Sometimes without, waking early and reviewing strokes or going abruptly in the middle of the day because she didn’t want to ‘get rusty’, the perfectionist in her he’s come to know ever-wanting to improve.

Either way, she was in the water often. And he had figured she would be put out with the pond becoming so unexpectedly grotty.

But she wasn’t.

The fallen leaves delighted her and had promptly assumed the role of her new practice outlet. She would raise them up into the air, not altogether but one by one, each foliole to the next as she sat cross-legged in the shade of the ship. Eyes closed lightly in subtle concentration.

He had thought it superfluous initially, when there were so many more challenging tasks with which she could apply her skills: manipulating the water in the pond, uprooting and replanting the grove’s ample trees, hell, lifting the freighter if she wanted to. But she had chosen the leaves, and the more she worked with them the more he came to realize upon watching her just how taxing they were. Or rather what she was doing with them.

From the first leaf floated into the air to the last not a single one would shift with the breeze. She held each of them stock-still until they were all organized in rows and columns, suspended just above the ground, and then lowered them back down inversely one by one.

It’s a horrendously tedious display of _patience_ — something she already has a particular talent for regarding him — and with every day bringing more leaves to the ground her exercise stretches longer and longer.

Though she still makes time to spar with him. 

Even so, Ben finds himself growing jealous of the leaves, of all things. Yet he never interrupts, content to merely be with her. He tries to meditate as she does sometimes while she works, sitting next to her or at the pond’s edge, but clearing his head has never been one of his achieving qualities. Rey helps though, her presence actively soothing him even while she’s preoccupied.

But today, as they settle themselves in the grass just beneath the freighter’s hull, she feels off. Still concentrated as usual, but not to the same degree. As if her attention is being split.

He decides to make no mention of it though as she raises the first, golden leaf into the air. And by the time she’s halfway through her task, the thought has all but drifted from his mind completely. Replaced by the whistling sounds of the wind and the rustle of her hair blowing in it. She’d kept it down after they’d woken up — not asking for him to tie it up or doing it herself — and he’s appreciative of it, of the ease that overcomes her features when she lets her hair flow freely.

“Ben?” She says, softer than a whisper, her eyes still closed and he wonders for a moment if she’d said anything at all. 

She’s never tried to talk with him during her practice, too much diverted concentration to do both. And, as if on cue, the leaves suspended in the air cascade to the ground altogether as she turns to face him, wary interest in her eyes. “What did you mean when you said ‘It is you’?”

“When did I say that?” He asks, still a tad distracted by her hair as a lock falls in front of her eyes. He tucks it back in place, shifting closer.

“On _Starkiller_ …” she clarifies and his fingertips falter on their way down her cheek.

_Oh._

It seems so long ago, a lifetime. But it’s merely been five standard weeks since she called his grandfather’s saber to her hand. Since she held the thread of his life in her palms and spared him, even before the planet broke apart between them. She had been stunning, circling ‘round his downed form like a predator— _frightening_ but, oh, so stunning.

“I don’t really know,” he offers, trying to recall what had been on his mind that night apart from ‘fight’ and ‘survive’. “I barely remember saying it.”

Her face falls subtly but the curiosity painted there doesn’t fade, “Okay, have you ever dreamt about me?” He blushes slightly at the idea her question suggests before she continues, “Had a nightmare, maybe?”

He shakes his head, “Not that I know of.” He’s only had two more nightmares since ‘the Cave’ three weeks ago, and he considers that a _small_ victory. 

One dream had been of Skywalker running him through when he’d refused to defend himself, a debased memory of the night the temple had burned, the night he left everything behind. He’d woken up dry heaving and searching for a saber wound that didn’t exist; Rey helped him to remember what was reality and what was not, undaunted by the fright wracking through his lungs.

The other hadn’t stemmed from memory but felt real just the same. 

He’d been ripped apart limb from limb, wrenched in four directions at once, but never saw his attackers, his sight stripped from him. It had made the torture all the more grueling, his other four senses heightened in his blindness, the Force absent from his control. But just when he’d thought they were finished tearing at him, leaving him to swallow his pain and bleed out, he had been stitched back together, _crudely_. And then the process was repeated. And repeated. And repeated until he woke screaming so forcefully that the freighter rattled around him. Rey had held his head in her lap as he’d sobbed, stroking his hair and holding back tears of her own when he allowed her access to his mind. 

But in spite of the nightmares, with Rey beside him, sleep comes as a comfort more nights than it does a burden.

“Have _you_ had dreams of me?” He queries in return, still unsure as to her line of questioning.

She nods vigorously, but her expression is dour, “I used to have nightmares about you.”

“You—” He gave her nightmares? _Of course I would…_

“Not like _this_ ,” she breaks in, no doubt reading his thoughts and placing a grave hand on his knee. “But before we…” She pauses and he can feel her reworking her words before she speaks again, “Before I _understood_.”

Then his neck prickles, a vision of himself — swathed in black and masked — charging forward, _towards her_ , with saber in hand in the pitch cover of a desert night floods his mind. And as soon as it’s there it’s gone, Rey not allowing him to view the image for longer than a second, her eyes down when he glances back at her.

He sighs, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not my point though,” she scoots forward, fully facing him now. “I dreamt that _before_ Takodana, and then I had another vision of you when I found Skywalker’s saber.”

Ben lets that sink in. It doesn’t click at first, but then… _Before Takodana…Before I found her…Before our minds were bridged…_

“Rey, what—” His stomach feels like it’s floating and his chest constricts, “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” she shifts closer, a glimmer in her eye and exhilaration buzzing across her skin, across their bond. “But I want to…”

He allows himself to admire her for a moment, soak in the avid longing to learn glowing on her face, the way she’s looking at him like he might possess every secret she’s ever wanted to unfold.

He kisses her. It’s quick, no more than a second or so, but he can’t stop himself. 

She makes a noise not far off from chirp as he pulls away and smiles at him in full, brilliant. And he’s leaning forward again, capturing that smile against his lips because _he can’t stop himself_.

Laughing, she catches his face in her hands and pushes him back gently, a ‘this is serious’ glint in her eye.

So he offers, “It could have been a Force vision if you were asleep. The subconscious is said to be the closest our minds can reach to the Force.”

“I thought that too, but,” her head tilts to the side, hesitation pinching her features before she finishes. “It never happened, did it?”

_I have attacked you though…_ he thinks ashamedly, taking care not to let the thought slip into her mind.

She must note the twitch under his eye or the tensing in his shoulders because she plows forward, “It didn’t, Ben. Think about it. The first time I saw you was on Takodana, in broad _daylight_. And then on _Starkiller_ , you weren't in your mask, I could see your face.” She brushes her fingertips over the scar she’d gifted him with on that very base, and he can’t tell if the pull in his gut is from butterflies or terror.

He decides it must be the latter because an utterly nauseating idea occurs to him: _What if it hasn’t happened yet?_

His head pounds at the thought. Why would he try to harm her? He wouldn’t. Snoke is dead. There’s no one left to decide who is his enemy and who is not. He wouldn’t harm her, he wouldn’t, he _wouldn’t_. Never again. Not after all she’s risked for him, after all the warmth she’s shared.

“So what do you think it was then?” He presses, banishing the twisted notion of ever betraying her from his thoughts.

“I _do_ think it was a vision of some sort,” her brow furrows heavily. “I think you were on Jakku in my dream, I’m sure now…” she mumbles, trailing off, eyes turning glassy.

“Now?” _How long has she been thinking about this?_

_“Two weeks,”_ she returns hurriedly, silently. _“About the dream at least. Since before we went to Raxulon for the bond, about why we’re connected.”_

_And you didn’t think to tell me about this nightmare until now?_

She bristles a little but sniggers, replying aloud, “I’ve been mulling it over.” Then her frame droops slightly as if the planet’s gravity had decided to converge over her for the briefest moment, “I didn’t know how to bring it up without sounding like a babbling lunatic, really.”

“Rey,” he fixes her with a disbelieving glower, indignation flaring behind his ribs. “We can speak to one another _inside of our heads_ , and you were concerned about sounding crazy because you had a dream of me before we met?”

The look she gives him in return is just as irritated as his, just as resolute, “Yes.”

He scoffs.

“Look,” she waves a hand through the air showily, “ _all this_ is new to me. Skywalker gave me little to no information about how the Force works or doesn’t for that matter. I don’t know what _this_ is.” Her hand gestures between them, “I don’t know what _we_ are, and I doubt you do either. So if I was hesitant in voicing my suspicions don’t hold it against me.”

“I’m not holding anything against you,” he murmurs, attempting to sound placating but failing miserably. The fire in her eyes — on her tongue — thrilling some poisonous part of him that craves this sort of conflict. “I just find it ridiculous.”

She falls back in the shaded grass, something rather close to a growl pushing past her lips, “Well, I’ve told you now, haven’t I? And you think I’m inane anyway, so…”

“I never said you were inane,” he pushes off the ground, clambering over-top her body and smirking. “Just that your logic is.”

She smacks his chest, her nose scrunching endearingly as he catches her wrist and drops his weight down atop her. Not _all_ of it, but enough to pin her to the ground, to free a breathless curse laced with laughter from her throat. He catches her mutter something like ‘you oaf’ but can’t be bothered to quip back when the soft skin of her neck is so clearly begging to be kissed, and bitten, and _bruised_. “You’re done with the leaves for today,” he orders, closing his lips over her pulse point. Still finding it within himself to loathe the fallen foliage for stealing her attention away from him even as he sucks a trail of welts down to her collarbone.

“That’s _my_ decision,” she hisses, her words in sharp contrast to the wanton way she rakes her nails down his back. And he can’t get his shirt off fast enough, wondering why in hell he even bothers wearing one.

“Then by all means,” he pulls away from her by a hairsbreadth to tug the garment over his head, tossing it aside, “resume your practice of patience.”

And she’s tackling him — an act that would have been supremely ineffective had he not been caught by surprise — pinning _him_ to the ground and caging his head between her forearms. Her lips crash against his, tongue flicking into his mouth, curling and pushing against his own, drawing all the breath right out of his lungs. Only when she comes up for air does she snarl softly, “Not a chance.”

————

It hadn’t taken them long to realize, after their clothes had been dispelled outside, that the brisk breeze whirring through the grove proved less than pleasant on their bare skin, forcing them to retreat to the promise of heaters aboard the freighter. Yet the delay hadn’t troubled him, the location of where he held her mattering little as long as he _got to hold her_. Got to memorize the blaze of her skin against his and how perfectly she fit around him. Got to listen to his name — the sound of which he once hated — tumble from her lips like it was the only word she knew, like a song he never wished to hear the end of. Got to press her golden, shivering body tight against him and wonder what good he had done in his worthless life to deserve this secret, unrestrained part of her.

He’s still wondering it when she asks faintly, her breathing almost returned to normal, “So you really don’t know what this is between us?” Her forefinger twirls idly across his sternum, “Our bond?”

“I know that Force bonds exist, they’re not entirely uncommon,” he hums tiredly into the crown of her head, the curve of her body tucked warmly into his side on their little bunk. “But I believe, with the consideration of your visions, _this_ might be something separate from the norm.”

“And what is the norm, exactly?” She questions further, her palm coming to rest above his heart as she tilts her gaze up to his.

“Well, bonds are generally said to be formed between Master and Apprentice,” he answers and she snorts curtly, unimpressed. His pride rears bitterly in his chest, remembering how she’d refused his teachings on _Starkiller_. He has to remind himself she doesn’t require that sort of a relationship from him before proceeding, “But we obviously don’t fall into that category. So, in short, no. I don’t know what _this_ is.”

She sighs, frustratedly he thinks, but burrows deeper into his side regardless. She’s quiet for a while and he begins to suspect that she might have fallen asleep. But then her lips twitch against his chest and she brushes a slow, lazy kiss into his skin, her voice muffled when she speaks again, “Whatever it is, I’m glad it’s you.”

_Oh._ He wasn’t aware of how swiftly the air in his lungs could fly from his body. He feels absolutely weightless, lightheaded even. But before he can return the sentiment, she’s asking another one of her endless questions, “How do you know about Force bonds? Where did you learn about them, I mean?”

He shifts uncomfortably beside her, the memories tied to said information rushing to the forefront of his mind. He’s become skilled in compartmentalizing his knowledge over the years, severing it from the recollection of precisely _how_ he’d acquired it. But every one of Rey’s questions over these nearly four weeks has poked holes in the divide he’s placed between the two, allowing reminders of his past to seep into his thoughts almost unbidden. So much so that he’s uncertain as to whether or not any of his mental strongholds still stand. “I read about them in one of Skywalker’s old books,” he says low, desiring anything but to think back on his years as a Padawan. “It was a long time ago.”

And then it’s Rey’s turn to stir anxiously against him, though he can’t figure a reason why until she whispers, bordering on shame, “I took his books when I left.” Ben feels his muscles coil involuntarily at the admission. “I know they weren't the same, but I stole them in case you came back to the Resistance with me. They’re still on the _Falcon_.” Something in her tone sounds rueful but he can’t bring himself to care, an ugly, unwanted heat boiling in his blood.

What had she thought would happen? That no one would bat an eye if he returned? That he would simply accept the way of the Jedi once more after spending the better part of a decade seeking out its destruction?

_Stop…_

She doesn’t deserve resentment. She’s here with him, isn’t she?

“Maybe, if we contact them, we could get the books back. Then we could figure out what’s causing—”

He sits up gruffly, caring none of the aggravated sigh she lets out behind him. _She knows the_ Falcon’s _comm code. She could have been in contact with the Rebels this whole time. She could be leading them here._

The logical part of Ben’s brain knows he’s being unnecessarily and absurdly suspicious, — a deep-rooted habit — that Rey’s only given him cause to trust her, but what if…

“We don’t have to, Ben,” she pleads, though her voice is not without severity, her own anger simmering just under the surface. “I’m just saying it might be helpful. I mean, there has to be some insight in those old books. If we comm Leia I’m sure she would—”

“We can figure it out on our own!” He interrupts through tight lips, not wanting to have a discussion about the ‘kindness’ of General Organa at the moment, his rage flaring at the very idea.

“But we don’t have the resources to do that!” He feels her sit up, feels her hand lifting to touch him.

He stands.

Her arm drops to the mattress behind him, irritation and something just shy of grief pouring through the bond. “Is it so terrible a thing to ask for _help_?” She shouts, but he’s already leaving the room, still having enough presence of mind to remove himself before he boils over.

_The Resistance won’t help us…_ They would deem him unworthy of their help — rightly so — and estrange Rey for associating with him. They’d call him her corruptor or something similar, something _worse_. And his mother would look upon him with the shame she used to when he was a boy, unable to contain his emotions, his _impulses_. She would tell him he’d selfishly obstructed Rey from her potential all because… Because… 

He walks to the ‘fresher as calmly as he can manage. To wet his face, to cool himself down, and he expects her to follow, bracing himself for another barrage of her opinions on the matter. But her footsteps never join his in the corridor, nor do they pad into the ‘fresher as he turns the sink on, running his hands through the cold water mindlessly, forgetting to raise them from the frigid stream as he glares at his pale reflection.

He looks like _her_. He looks like _both of them_ , really. But it’s his mother staring back at him now. Her eyes regretful and acrid and _lost_. 

It makes him sick.

And before he can think better of it, before he can still the pounding of blood in his ears and the Dark razing through his thoughts, he’s driving his fist into the mirror. 

_One. Two. Three._

Glass splinters beneath his knuckles, tearing at his skin, the bright pain of it egging him on, pushing him further. 

_Four. Five. Six. Seven._

Dribbles of blood roll down the shattered surface under his hand and he releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

He senses Rey’s concern rush through the bond, her _fright_ , and he stumbles back. Falling to the floor the instant his back hits the wall. A vile mixture of excitement and remorse coursing thick through his body, tacking him to the spot, preventing even the most nominal of movements.

He wants nothing more than to go to her, to trudge back to Rey with an apology on his tongue, but what a grotesque, persuasive thing his pride is, forcing him to ‘hold his ground’.

_Maker_ , he’s a lost cause.

At some point, once his brain begins properly functioning once more, he plucks the few shards of glass buried between his knuckles out. The twinge affecting him little because, if he’s being honest, he relishes the pain. Relishes the way his skin, just this side of shredded, oozes red between his fingers and down his palm. It’s grisly and raw but it’s _warm_.

His wrist hurts. It’s not broken, he would know if it was, but it could very well be fractured.

He doesn’t know how long he stays crumpled on the floor, long enough for the cold durasteel to not feel so cold underneath him anymore, long enough for the blood on his hand to dry and the beginning, purple mottling of bruises to spread over his skin.

The ‘fresher door slides open. He has to suppress the urge to look up at her, knowing the humiliation knotting in his stomach will take over if he does. Yet he raises his gaze enough to see she’s put her clothes back on from earlier today while his are folded neatly in her arms, held tight to her chest. She makes her way over to him with trepidation and settles uneasily at his right. He wonders what kind of image he must strike naked and shivering on the ‘fresher floor, his battered hand tucked close to his chest as his eyes rove across anything but _her_.

Ridiculous. He must look ridiculous.

Rey is silent as she sits with him. She doesn’t scold him or touch him or even offer his clothes back. She just sits.

If he were a better man, he would be grateful for her composure, but all it does is stoke his receding anger back to its former strength. “I don’t want to talk about the Resistance,” he grits out, gaze locked on the shattered mirror across the room.

She stares ahead too, imitating his posture, “Neither do I.”

“Then what are you doing here?” He snaps, omitting even the slightest gesture of civility.

But she takes it in stride, not so much as flinching at his tone, “I came to see if you were all right.”

“Well,” a lump forms in his throat and he has to cough roughly to clear it, “I am, so…”

And then she turns her head, musing, “No you’re not,” and reaching for his injured hand. He lets her, holding back a hiss as her fingertips glide carefully overtop the torn skin of his knuckles. She contemplates his destructive handiwork, breathing steadily through her nose as if too sharp a breath would harm him further. “It’s natural to be angry,” she murmurs, not only to him but, he suspects, herself as well. Then she lifts her eyes, looking right at him, right _through_ him, and he knows whatever she’s about to say is meant for him alone, “Just don’t lose yourself to it.”

He wants to kiss her, wants to wrap his arms around her and tell her that she’s right. That he doesn’t want to lose himself. That she’s so, _so_ right. But he can’t seem to untangle the tendrils of his ire away from his tongue, weak as they may be now. And so he barks, challenging her with no expectation of gaining any satisfaction from it, “Or what?”

She doesn’t bite back though, instead, she lowers her lips to his bloodied knuckles, only applying the lightest of pressures. He expects it to sting but her voice filters through his mind, the sincerity of it, the honest warmth suffusing through him, burning away the ache in his wrist, and the bruises on his fingers, and the muddle of his thoughts, _“Or I’ll miss you…”_

Turning his palm over, she rains meticulous kisses up his forearm and it occurs to him suddenly that she’s trying to heal whatever damage he’d inflicted upon himself. He chokes on a sob, it’s the second time today she’s expelled all the air from his lungs and…he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

What can he do but gather her into him and wish they'd found one another before he became so helpless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All righty! _Weeks_ ago I received a comment requesting that Ben do something dark to amp up the drama of the story and lemme tell ya, _I loved that idea_ and finally, _finally_ got around to working it in!  
> With that in mind...  
> Ben and Rey's plot for these next few updates is actually going to somber up a bit, not to say that it won't still be integral in comparison to the Resistance and FO plots, just that there's going to be plenty of writing-wiggle-room for how to progress their relationship.  
> So!  
> If you have any ideas for possible Ben/Rey interactions, I'm all ears... ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! <3


	12. To Like and To Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn learns more about Luke's past. So does Rey about Ben's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !Very brief mention of alcohol abuse!
> 
> Some more angst in this one, but some fluff as well...

Skywalker makes his way coolly into the Broadleaf forest looming over the aged Rebel base, his countenance bordering on detached, and Finn can’t do anything but follow for the sake of his curiosity.

He’s taken walks at the edge of the jungle with Rose before, but never ventured too far in case the footing became too rough for her.

But now, in the dark, he has to be careful not to step on any of the color-changing reptiles Poe’s friend, Nodin, had discovered last week. He curses himself for not grabbing his dingy glowrod from the _Falcon_ when he’d shoved his boots on. Skywalker seems unperturbed though, as usual.

Once Finn’s fallen into step beside the old Jedi and they’ve put a considerable distance between them and the hangar, Skywalker rambles casually, “I taught Leia how to wield the Force on this moon almost thirty years ago. We used this jungle as a training course of sorts.” He chuckles darkly under his breath, the sound making Finn’s eyes widen in disbelief, “She’s far more powerful in the Force than she gives herself credit for, I think…”

“Er, Master Skywa—”

“But looking back,” he cuts in, seemingly unaware of anything apart from his own thoughts, “I didn’t have any idea what I was doing. I barely knew the Force myself at the time and thought I could successfully train someone _else_. It’s absurd, really, the things we think we can accomplish when we’re young and—”

“Skywalker,” Finn grunts, stopping in his tracks and placing his hands on his hips, assuming the stance Poe uses when he needs his aggravation to be unquestionably known. “What does this have to do with Ren?” It takes him hours upon hours now to achieve some semblance of sleep and he’s not about to waste those precious hours _chatting_ with someone that might as well be a stranger.

The older man tenses for the briefest of seconds then bolsters a bit and replies, “Everything, I suppose…”

Oh, he could punch a tree. He really, really could with how wound up he is, how desperate for answers. He’s never felt something so urgently in his _life_. “Listen, with all due respect, I’ve already received enough cryptic answers from the General to last me into next year. So if you could elaborate, please, that would be great.”

It’s difficult to dissect the amalgamation of reactions that flit across Skywalker’s face but Finn settles on _amusement_ being the most prominent in the slew.

“She told me you were more spirited than the rest of them,” Skywalker chuckles again.

_Huh?_

“Who told you what?” Finn demands as cordially as he can manage.

“Leia,” he clarifies. “Says she doesn’t know how you can spend every day thinking up plans of rescue for Rey and still remain as productive as you do. You impress her.”

“Wait.” He _must_ be missing something. It’s not the second-hand compliment that gives Finn pause or even the mention of finding Rey, it’s… “You’ve barely spoken to General Organa since we picked you up. How would _you_ know what she thinks of me?”

The old Jedi’s eyes twinkle despite the sudden solemnity on his face. “We don’t always have to speak to one another to _speak to one another_ ,” he suggests, tapping a finger urbanely to his temple.

Finn can barely contain the need to roll his eyes into the back of his head. _Kriffing Jedi and their magic, Force, mind-power bunk…_

“Which is how I figure Rey contacted my nephew…” Skywalker drones as if he’d just uttered the most casual of declarations.

Finn’s head snaps up, “What?” 

The older man levels him with a tired, ‘keep-up’ kind of glare and huffs, “I’m assuming you know she went to him, to Ben?”

_Don’t call him that…_ Finn thinks, he seems too human that way. “I know she’s with him. Under what pretense, I can’t say though,” he finally grits out.

“It’s not an act, I can assure you of that,” Skywalker states, shaking his head and resuming their walk, kicking a small pebble from his path in an alarmingly petulant fashion. “I felt the same way you do now when she went after him. I tried to convince her otherwise but—” He combs a hand through his beard and sniggers, “Would you know what I meant if I said she was _herself_ about it?”

And Finn finds himself laughing with the older man, _actually laughing_ , picturing the almost savage look in her eyes when her temper flared. “Yes, I would.”

A not-entirely-uncomfortable silence blankets the air as they walk deeper into the foliage and Finn feels a fraction of the pounding in his head lift away. Perhaps a morsel of his worry vanishing with the salve of _answered questions_ soothing his mind.

“Leia, Rey, Chewie, hell, even your friend Dameron, they all have hope for my nephew,” Luke mutters through the dark, an odd formality lining his voice. “Varying degrees, of course, but hope just the same. But I didn’t—” He clears his throat, adjusting the collar of his cloak and Finn gapes slightly at the nervous gesture legends like him should be immune to. “I didn’t have that hope when he needed it most. Leia trusted me to train her son in the Light and I only managed to drive him further into the Dark…”

Finn isn’t really sure what he had been expecting when Skywalker asked to ‘talk with him’, but it was _not_ a heart-to-heart. “What do you mean?”

“He had already been my pupil for almost thirteen years when I stopped denying his impulse towards the Dark Side of the Force. It rarely manifested in his training, he hid it well for my sake, I think. But I could sense confusion in him, a turmoil I had felt once, too.” He sighs, planting his feet awkwardly in the dirt. “I should have been more understanding, I should have offered him help with all the experience I had. But I was the mighty _Luke Skywalker_ , hero of the New Republic, and I let my reputation cloud my judgment. I—” He coughs gracelessly. “I attacked him in his sleep,” he finally croaks out and Finn chokes on his own spit from breathing in so sharply, likely to hack up a lung with how violently he’s coughing. Thank the _Maker_ they’re nowhere near the hangar, he would have surely awoken the whole Resistance by now.

“You… _WHAT_?” He wheezes. _No, no, Luke Skywalker does NOT attack defenseless people…That…That doesn’t make sense…_

“At least, I was going to,” Luke murmurs, eyes tracking the ragged breathing still racking through Finn’s chest with something that could be a distant relative of concern, “before I realized what I was doing and what a fool I was. But it didn’t matter. Ben saw and everything I had built over almost two decades fell at my feet in a single night.” He sighs heavily, “The cost for my pride…”

“Why— Why are you telling _me_ this?” Finn sputters. He’s in over his head now, he’s sure of it.

Skywalker doesn’t say anything for a long, _long_ while and Finn isn’t sure whether he’s contemplating the question or ignoring it completely. But it doesn’t take much for Finn to shift his focus away from the old Jedi and to the sounds of the jungle around them. Wet, rustling leaves, the flutter of avians obscured from view taking flight, the sodden crunch of branches beneath his feet as he shifts his weight. It’s all these that make Skywalker’s hushed answer ever more difficult to hear. “When I failed my nephew, I failed the galaxy. I didn’t want, or even try to help because I had lost hope.”

Another pause.

“I’m telling you all of this because Leia believes in the hope _you_ have.” Luke’s gaze rises to the moons illuminating the navy sky through thick, jungle vines above them. “You care for Rey. You have faith that the Resistance will find her but you’re afraid of how long that might take.”

Finn scoffs, “I’m afraid we’ll find her dead, or injured, or _worse_.”

“Worse?” Skywalker prods, controlled interest evident in his voice. And something about that interest makes Finn _want_ to spill his guts.

“I’m afraid—” He stops, furrowing his brow.

_…she was spotted_ stealing _a star freighter on Naboo…I’m inclined to believe Rey is with my son on her own volition…we never know anyone as well as we think we do…_

“I’m afraid she’ll be like _him_.”

Skywalker hums crisply, knowingly, “And what if the Resistance finds that _he_ has become like _her_?”

Finn can’t really visualize that possibility but plays along, if only just. “That’s a positive way of thinking, I suppose. _If_ he wants to be found, that is.”

Luke chuckles — the sound not so surprising to Finn after having heard it a few times — and raises a mollifying hand in the air, “All I’m saying, all _Leia_ is saying, is that you have tremendous, infectious hope in Rey returning. Why not have hope that she’ll succeed as well?”

“Succeed in what?”

The old Jedi strokes a hand through his rough beard, considering the question before an expression that can only be described as impish falls upon his face. “Hoping…”

**————————**

Ben Solo is not a small man by any means. He fills every space he occupies, not only with the broadness of his frame but with the resounding swell of his Force signature. Even when calm, the very essence of him borders on suffocating as if asking — _begging_ — to be seen.

Yet here, crumpled and weary on the ‘fresher floor, he is so very _small_.

With Rey’s left hand curled at his nape and her right holding gingerly to his bruising, slightly swollen wrist, he tucks his free arm ardently around her waist. Rey hasn’t the knowledge or experience to fully comprehend what she’s doing but thinks back on Ben’s fingers between her own as they made their way into Raxulon all those weeks ago. Thinks of how he’d soothed her nerves with just the touch of his skin and tries to emulate that. Pouring acceptance and warmth into his very bones, looking for whatever breakage he’d caused beneath his skin through the Force.

She feels nothing short of silly when she starts, gracing barely-there kisses up his arm, scraping dried blood from his palm, the strangest sensation of Lightness flowing from her fingertips as she ‘knits’ him back together. But it’s _working_. She can feel the skin over his knuckles start to close, his bruises dissipating slowly but steadily, and she laughs faintly in amazement.

_It’s working…I’m doing this and it’s WORKING…_

Ben nuzzles her cheek and she feels wetness fall atop her shoulder. He’d started crying when she first kissed his knuckles but she drew no attention to it, beyond relieved for his sudden docility, even if it had given her a bit of whiplash.

She speculates that Han and Leia may have been that way: loud and brash and fuming one moment, then overcome abruptly with calm the next. 

He hasn’t told her much of anything about his parents save for the few clipped, one-word answers he gives when she can’t stop herself from prodding; the only reason he responds at all, no doubt being he doesn’t want to upset her _too_ much. But she decides he must get it from them, even without a method to prove her assumption, somehow she _knows_.

“I’m turning your hand back over,” she mumbles, carefully shifting her focus to the nub of his wrist, which she’s almost certain is cracked.

He offers a drowsy, “Mhm,” and lowers his forehead to her shoulder, head teetering loosely like he might be woozy.

“Are you okay?” Worry surges through her that she’s done something terribly wrong, that she’s only adding to the pain of his injury in her greenhorn attempt at healing him. Though she’s loath to stop now when his bruises are nearly gone.

“Feels nice…” His words are slurred as he kisses just above her collarbone, head lolling even further forward until it falls into her lap limply.

“Ben!” _Stars, did he pass out?_

Shaking his head, he hums, “S’nice, don’t stop…” voice muffled by her shirtfront.

Problem is, he’s pressed their joined hands tightly against his chest, grasping hers in something just shy of a death grip, which is a testament to her mending abilities being more effective than she’d originally surmised.

“Can you roll over a bit?” She whispers gently, unable to repress the grin that tugs on her lips as he turns and looks up at her. A dazed, blissful air washing over him, his mouth parted in something like awe, cheeks flushed, and eyelids low.

“I’m really glad I met you,” he declares languidly, unashamed, finally letting go of her hand enough for her to continue working on his wrist.

“Is that so?” She teases, though not without wondering whether she’s overdoing it a tad on curative duty. She thinks she’s ‘setting’ his bone properly but can’t be entirely sure, this type of healing being a far cry from the makeshift splints she’d fashioned on Jakku when she took rough falls or similar. It’s highly likely she could just be channeling that peculiar Lightness in her fingertips through his body.

He nods resolutely, widening his eyes so she’ll pay attention and, oh, he looks so _young_ , “You’re so patient and strong and beautiful. I don’t deserve to be anywhere near you.”

She chuckles softly at the childlike earnesty in his gaze, her face warming for all the underlying solemnity of his statement.

Sometimes, a paltry little voice in the back of her head agrees with him. Tells her that she has no business associating with him, and he, her. That they _should_ be enemies.

But how many times has he spared her when he had no reason to? He could have ended her life on _Starkiller_ had he not asked her to be his student. Or when she’d made herself vulnerable to him on Ahch-To. Or even when she’d refused him initially on the _Supremacy_.

Yet he always let her live. _Fought_ for her to live even. And that counts for something.

“I think you’re forgetting that _I_ asked _you_ to leave with me,” she answers. “I’m with you because I want to be.”

_You deserve to be wanted, for once…_ she thinks. But still, she can’t speak for his parents, only what little he’s shown her of his life before the First Order. Glimpses of loneliness rather than nurturement. 

He trails a finger from his uninjured hand leisurely down the bridge of her nose, a lazy smile that’s more than fond painting his features, “I want to be with you, too…”

She snorts. “Well, do I have news for you!”

And then he laughs that big, goofy, crooked-toothed laugh she’s only seen on four occasions now and counting, her heart skipping for a beat or two per usual since he did it the first time. But, before she can stop it, a question tumbles out of her mouth with an embarrassing lack of thought behind it, “What were you like when you were my age?”

She throws a hand over her mouth.

She’d promised herself she wouldn’t bring up his time with Luke unless absolutely necessary.

_Blast, blast, blast!_

But he snickers, _of all things_ , “Insufferable, I’d assume.” Then, with his free arm wrapping around her middle again, he burrows his face into her stomach, breath tickling her skin through thin layers of fabric. “I don’t think very many students at Skywalker’s academy cared for me,” he finishes, not sounding the least bit annoyed by her accidental insensitivity, the bubbling warmth diffusing from her fingers still affecting him considerably in all likelihood.

“Oh.” She finds herself at a loss for words.

“I’m not likable,” he continues, not sounding angered still, or even saddened, by the statement, rather speaking as if relaying a fact.

She kisses his wrist — _almost done_ — and counters, “I like you.” And she’s not lying or falsely appeasing him, she’s being… _truthful_. She _does_ like him, more and more with each day he opens up to her. She likes him for the way he listens to her talk even if it’s about pointless things like how grueling it is to put together a repulsorlift from scratch, or the alleged storms of R’iia on Jakku. She likes him for the way he knows the _exact_ moment to make a snarky comment so that it’s the most amusing. She likes him for the way he’s not so afraid of crying around her anymore.

“You’re the first,” he sighs and there’s hazy veneration in the way it pours from his lips.

_Leia loves you…Luke, too_ , she wants to say but thinks better of it because therein lies the divide between to _like_ and to _love_. Who is she to assume whether they see him as anything more than their son or nephew? More than someone they’re _obligated_ to love?

So she settles for an, “I doubt it,” instead and decides her work on his hand is completed, rolling his wrist just to be sure, flexing his fingers. “But I’ll acknowledge the position for now, anyway.” She places one last kiss to the backs of his knuckles. “All right, I think I’m done.”

He cranes his neck to peer up at her again and the previous reverence in his voice reflects openly in his eyes. His relaxed visage still takes her back slightly, and she asks out of impulsive curiosity, “Has anyone ever healed you before?”

Rey doesn’t know what she expects to learn from his response since she has no inkling as to what she just did to accomplish mending him in the first place, but she’s anxious to find out nonetheless.

“Skywalker a few times, when I was young,” he mutters, bringing his newly healed hand to rest above her heart, “just scraped knees and elbows, nothing substantial, a sprained ankle once.” Then his flushed cheeks burn darker, “But it never felt like _this_ …”

“Like what?”

“Rapture,” he says under his breath, staring at her like his life could very well depend on it and Rey experiences the dueling need to both raise her chin proudly and recoil in timidity all at once. Though the spell is broken when he sniggers, “Or maybe being drunk with none of the consequences.”

“Ha-ha,” she drones flatly, running a hand over his forehead and through his hair. He nestles deeper against her, a sated smile softening his features as he does, when a thought occurs to her, “I’ve never been drunk.”

She waits for his response, but when it doesn’t come she fills the silence, “Some of the older scavengers around the Outpost would make moonshine from time to time. But more often than not they were defensive about it, and no one wanted to be around them. They could get… _violent_.” She shakes her head in a fruitless attempt to dispel the memories of all the fights she’d witnessed break out for nothing more than _‘the drink’_ , “It turned me off to the prospect of alcohol at a very young age.”

Ben repositions his shoulders so he’s sprawled atop her thighs more so than curled up against her, his jaw working in thought. “One of the students a couple of years behind me snuck a bottle of Cheedoan whiskey into the temple after he’d returned from a training mission off-world. He split it evenly between a group of the older students after dark; there were seven of us.”

It’s not lost on Rey that he’s purposely omitting the student’s name, — and she can understand why he would, even through the shiver that ripples icily down her spine at the thought — yet she can’t help herself from hanging off his every word.

It’s the first time he’s _really and truly_ shared a piece of his past without her having to badger him about it in advance.

Every nerve-ending in her body is alive with anticipation.

“We all took our first drink together, for whatever reason,” he huffs, that alluring snideness in his voice returning slowly. “It tasted like _piss_.”

She laughs and he smiles broadly up at her, shamelessly admiring.

“And?” She encourages after he doesn’t say anything for a moment too long.

“And I poured out what was left in my mug. Some of it splashed onto Vo—,” he coughs, “one of the other student’s boots. They weren’t very pleased with me, said Skywalker would be able to smell the whiskey in the morning.” Clear discomfort flashes across his face, even with the warming remnants of her healing still clinging to him, but his expression shifts within a second, “Now that I think about it though, it’s improbable to assume Skywalker wasn’t already aware of what we were doing and simply didn’t care.”

She finds that hard to believe for reasons she can’t quite place, “Really?”

“I remember him drinking at parties when I was a kid before I was shipped off,” he reveals, the semi-dazed, casualness of his tone shocking her once again.

“Oh, well, okay…”

After a beat, “But I understand.”

“What?”

“Your distaste for alcohol,” he states, the reply instant.

“Wait,” she looks down at him sharply, “have you not had any since _then_?”

He nods and she’s hard-pressed to believe him for the second time in less than a minute.

“How old were you?” She demands hushedly.

“Eighteen.”

And, despite her exasperated surprise at the admission, she can’t help imagining what he must have been like all those years ago. Had he been awkward and gangly like she still is in some ways? Did he have short hair that let his ears stick out or was he covering them up even back then? Had the other students truly disliked him or is he still perceiving the situation wrong after all this time?

She feels, if she knew, she might _remember_ him rather than be left wondering how it’s possible for someone to know a person and not know them all at once.

“The possibility of temporarily losing my mental facilities was enough to deter me,” he explains, pulling her from her thoughts. “I wanted— I _want_ to have control over what goes on my head…”

Rey’s breath hitches.

What had Snoke said in the throne room?

_I see his mind…I see his every intent…_

Her skin crawls at the memory. How long had he lived with his mind belonging to someone other than himself? What would that _do_ to a person?

Her gaze travels to the shattered, red-stained glass littered on the floor across the room. A shudder runs through her.

“So I suppose saying I feel drunk is mere speculation, in all actuality,” he mutters, sounding a bit more like himself. “But you get the comparison.”

She hums something that passes well enough for a ‘yeah’, distracted, eyes flitting between the broken mirror and his placid face.

_What did he do to you?_

“Ben,” she starts, taking a chance on his accidentally induced ease. “How long had Snoke been in your head before what happened in the throne room?”

She knows he’d been under Snoke’s ‘control’ long before he fled from Luke but she’s unsure as to when the connection began. Even so, the instant the question settles in the air she holds her breath. Awaiting a glower or scoff at her evident lack of tact, another outburst perhaps, and though she doesn’t think he would, the guilt stirring in her gut from the simple act of asking makes imagining it easy enough.

But the response she receives is far from any of her assumptions as he mutters with eyelids low, “You’re everything Han and Leia wanted me to be.” He could almost be asleep. “Sure-footed and gracious. Easy to talk to…to connect with. You don’t let anything keep you down.”

“Ben, wha—”

“And I might have been all those things…” he interrupts, swallowing and turning his face away from her. “But I had this voice in the back of my head telling me I was a disappointment. That I was unwanted. You heard it.”

And she recalls the pitch dark of his nightmare from weeks ago, the hollow, grating words raking through her ears as she was given a glimpse into his memories, how fear had warped them. Yes, she had heard the voice.

“I don’t remember ever not hearing him,” he admits eventually, below even a whisper.

Her immediate reaction is to cradle him tighter against her, to murmur sympathies in his ear and kiss his hair like some sort of overwhelming _mother_. But the tug of instinct in her chest tells her to stay still, that he’s not finished.

“When I killed him,” he continues, his words watery on the edges as he takes a breath to steady them. “When I killed Snoke, I thought it would feel like a veil had lifted from me. But— But it was like I had killed Han Solo all over again.”

Rey jolts at the mention of… _that_. The whole of her body stiffening beneath him and he sits up, removing himself from her touch entirely. He knows this boundary of hers and accepts it without hesitation, without debate.

“It was hollow, unfulfilling for its grandness and less than everything I’d worked it up to be. Then I realized, when you and I were escaping the _Supremacy_ …” Rey watches his eyes wander across the floor warily, looking every bit a wounded creature, “I wouldn’t know what a clear mind felt like even if I had one.”

She can’t help the fret that roils through her. When she’d left Jakku with Finn, even through denying why she had been stuck on the sand-heap in the first place, she felt the air of freedom fill her lungs for the first time. It was a palpable experience. A definitive line had been crossed. She would and could never be the same after that moment.

And to think that Ben hadn’t been graced with that feeling after taking his own damn life back… 

Her fist curls on its own volition. Something callous unfurling within her.

“Is that why you fired on the hangar?” Her question fills the room at a surprisingly level tone for the angered, free-firing of her brain. If she closes her eyes, she can still smell the smoke and burning metal in the docking bay. Can still feel his gloved grip on her upper arm as he led them to his shuttle, the apprehension rolling off of him in that moment.

His gaze finds hers timidly, “Yes, but—” he picks at the sleeve of his shirt folded on the floor where she’d left it to inspect his hand. “But _I_ did it. Just like I killed Han Solo and tortured you and…and… _I_ did those things. It doesn’t matter whether Snoke told me to or not, _I_ followed through.” His voice is frighteningly calm for the manner of discussion between them, “I’ve let awful things happen just because Snoke told me to. And I could have fought back long before I met you, but I didn’t have anything else to go to. I didn’t have anyone to tell me there was more of—”

“Ben,” she reaches for his hand but his fingers hold to hers weakly, “I’m not accusing you of what you did when you were under Snoke.”

He pulls his hand back and stands, plucking his pants from the floor and pulling them on. “ _I_ am,” he hisses.

“Ben—”

“On _Starkiller_ , when I forced my way into your memories,” he makes his way across the ‘fresher to the mirror and begins piling the bloodied shards of glass into the sink basin, “I saw Han Solo offering you a job. Why didn’t you take it?”

For longer than strictly necessary, Rey stares at the back of his head, gaping. But eventually, “I— I still wanted to go back to Jakku.”

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you had agreed?”

“No.” _Nothing different would have come of it…_

“I do,” he states, sounding almost indifferent. “I wonder if you would have left with him before I arrived, if neither of you would have ended up on _Starkiller_. I wonder what would have happened if I’d let Luke kill me when he wanted to. If Leia had never sent me away. If I’d never been born.”

The more he rambles the more she feels like her heart is going to hop out of her throat in distress, “Why?”

But he doesn’t answer her question, “Did you know I was born on the same day the initial First Order faction was created? Like fate or a cruel joke or—”

_BEN!_

He pivots around to face her immediately, a warring blend of shame and contempt in his expression.

She takes a deep breath through her nose, “What the hell are you getting at?”

He drops his eyes, stalling for an instant before returning to his task and rumbling, “That maybe you should have left with Han So— with my _father_ when you had the chance.”

————

The next four days following the ‘incident’ drag by in near silence. Rey attempts to plan another trip to Raxulon before their supplies run out but Ben gives little input and she gets all but nowhere. She’s resigned herself to the idea that she might have to go alone this time. 

And, as if the lack of conversation during the day isn’t enough to bring her to her wit's end, every night he asks if she wants him to sleep in another bunk, in another crew cabin. She always tells him no.

But he barely touches her when they're in bed, only offering the lightest brushes of his fingertips. 

His arms don’t reach for her in the dark either and she wakes alone morning after morning, finding him slumped in the cockpit, twisting the loose handle on the leftmost hyperdrive lever idly. Lost in thoughts she doesn’t dare interrupt.

He never asks her to spar with him. He doesn’t sit with her while she meditates with the fallen leaves. He scarcely speaks when they eat together.

Yet nothing they’d said to one another after she’d healed him called for the near muteness that he’s been overcome with. Sure, she’d been frustrated with the dour turn their conversation had taken but it had been _warranted_. She suspects the reason for his blocking her out stems from embarrassment, from agonizing over every detail of his life he’d let slip off his tongue.

Every detail he can’t take back… 

At first, she’d thought him angry with her for not putting a stop to his tirade of honesty in the moment. Though his Force signature, she’d realized, lends itself to sadness more so than fury. But even sadness isn’t the proper word to describe it. It’s _emptier_ than that, more redundant. As if he's pondered thoughts such as those he’d voiced to her time and time again.

And that gnarls something within her, weighing her down until she might as well be just as lost as he is.

She’d asked him not to lose himself to anger… But what about _this_? What is she supposed to do when he’s disappeared into himself?

She _misses_ him, just like she’d told him she would.

He doesn’t seem to care though, and that old 'friend' from her youth, that _loneliness_ , manifests itself within her mind. Has her dreaming of him in the thick of night, even as he lies beside her. But they’re not so much dreams _of_ him as they are dreams _as_ him. 

Each night, when sleep finally pulls her under, she trains with a much younger Luke Skywalker. The Skywalker she’s seen in Ben’s nightmares, sandy-blond and _powerful_ , almost cocksure. Then stern and grey-bearded, suspicious of even the wind’s howl.

And he’s always scolding her, teaching her lessons that have nothing to do with the Force. 

Always _disappointed…_

She can never see herself in the dreams but is certain she’s in Ben’s body, living the memories he lived or something close. And every morning she wakes more knowledgeable in regard to him in spite of his silence, more understanding. Experiencing for herself the frustration that comes with being told she feels _too much_ day in and day out. Of being put against her peers in sparring matches who, if she loses, will scoff and claim she can’t possibly have Skywalker blood or, if she wins, grumble that she has an unfair advantage. Of being the front-running spur for the growth of her own Master’s distrust.

She wants to tell him about the dreams. She wants to tell him _so badly_ , thrilled by the new mental development in their bond, but his distance has stripped her resolve to its bare bones, affording her the courage only to mutter his name in passing and go no further. Never getting to the _point_.

He always whispers her name back though, but no more. Sometimes he’ll press a kiss to her forehead or a hand to her shoulder, but it always feels like an apology, like remorse. He even sleeps differently, curling his body away from hers rather than around it like she's some fragile thing he could break too, just like the mirror, and she could _scream_.

She gives him his space though, doesn’t push him when he’s unwilling to share. But now she’s seen him willing, regardless of its catalyst, and wants to know _more_. Wants _him_ to tell her about himself rather than be shown through his dreams or the ones she’s having herself. And she convinces herself to be patient at first, to wait this ‘phase’ out before trying conversation again but she _can’t take it anymore_.

She’s been patient her whole damn life, she deserves to be whingeing, at least this once.

But, as they crawl into their little bunk after four days and three nights of exchanging only the most necessary communication, she feels her determination begin to slip and blurts out, somewhere in between a shout and a squeak, “You’re talking to me tomorrow!”

Ben freezes, halfway through pulling the covers up over his waist, and looks at her, bewildered.

“You’re talking to me tomorrow,” she repeats, with finality this time. “And if you don’t, I’m going to follow you around, babbling like a madwoman until you wish you’d never left with me.”

He chuckles, gracing her with the smallest of smiles and whispering, “Okay,” as he leans into her space. And when his lips slant over hers, despite only going less than a week without his breath in her lungs, she holds his face to hers like it could have been a lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I wanted to let you all know that you can find me on Tumblr under the same name as my pseud. I don't do much on there but I have been reblogging several sources you can use to help support BLM and will continue to do so in the coming weeks/months. I would have posted links to petitions and the like here but I'm a total granny when it comes to this site and still figuring everything out. This seemed like the fastest method to 'get the word out' if you will. Forgive me if it's a bit cumbersome... :/
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and stay safe out there! <3


	13. Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben has some _realizations_ about how relationships work. Let's check in on the Ginger Disaster, shall we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I offer this not-so-goofy chapter summary as consolation for the third update in a row of angst. I promise the space babies will be boarding the fluff train again soon!

Sand is everywhere.

It’s stuck between his toes and catching in his hair. Scraping at his skin harshly with the wind. It’s in his mouth and his nose and his eyes. _Everywhere_.

But he doesn’t give two bantha ticks.

It’s the fourth night in a row he’s had this dream and, truthfully, he’s rather bored with it at this point. He’s bored with just _walking_ because that’s all he does: trudge through golden dunes from the blinding desert morning of his dream until the oppressive sun dips below the horizon. To which he always wakes immediately, the sun of Raxus stretching beams of daylight through the transparisteel of the cockpit and into the freighter’s corridors.

It’s not _awful_ as dreams go, — he’s aware he’s dreaming, after all — but it’s monotonous and he’ll be glad to be rid of it, whenever that may be.

Not tonight though, apparently. Tonight is just the same as it’s three predecessors.

Dressed only in his sleep pants, a beating sun pinks his skin and scorches the sand beneath his bare feet. The first night, after he’d ruined the mirror, he walked through the dream with purpose, thinking there was someplace or person he needed to find. But he’d woken in the early morning with nothing to show for it but the phantom feeling that he should have had a sunburn.

The second night he hadn’t walked at all, partially in distress for the dream’s recurrence, but also to test a theory. Perhaps something would come to him if he sat and waited. But that, too, proved unavailing.

By the third time, he finally began wondering where he was, exactly. Taking the ever-sprawling, sandy nothingness into account, it could very well be a mere ‘dreamscape’ concocted by his subconscious. Though Rey had mentioned Jakku more than once in the past couple of days and, succumbing to the urge of investigation, he’d set out walking once more. Searching for landmarks he would recognize from his short ‘visit’ almost a month ago and the images he’d caught sight of in her memories on _Starkiller_.

But there had been nothing again. No settlements or natural markers. No ship graveyard indicative of Jakku from the Galactic Civil War. _Nothing_.

And now, on his fourth go ‘round through the dream sands, he’s completely and hopelessly bored _out of his mind_.

He imagines this is how Rey must have felt these past few days, what with him being unable to address any inconvenience — for lack of a better term — properly… _with words_. Not that he’s profoundly interesting when speaking anyway; he always manages to say the wrong thing, whether trying to or not.

Thinking about it, he’s rather like all this sand, isn’t he? Undependable. Boorish. Utterly and painfully _irritating_.

Perhaps that’s the reason for the dream, forcing him to reflect as if he hasn’t been doing enough of that already while awake.

He hadn’t meant to shut her out. He’d only wanted a moment to clear his head as best as he could, to shake the remnants of her healing fingers from his system, regardless of how _good_ they’d felt. But the longer he’d kept to himself the more unworthy he felt of her forgiveness, which, if experience held true, she would continue to shower him with should he ask. And he wants that, to feel shame-free and blameless, but he’s not troubled enough to fail in recognizing how unjustified that feeling would be.

So then, perhaps his dream is a hint of the atonement he’ll have to seek out to deserve any of the pardon Rey offers him. Or of the punishment he’ll be put through at the end of it all for the blood on his hands, no matter what he does by way of remedy while alive. Though he’s not sure which of the two is more troublesome because he knows the former will take the whole of his life anyway.

Maybe they’re not so different after all… 

And so he walks, resigning himself to the torment of aching feet and blistering skin for the next few hours of sleep.

He’d promised Rey he’d speak to her tomorrow, eagerly, too, because she’s the only person he’s ever found conversation effortless with. But what would they talk about? Trivial discussion seems too, well… _trivial_. And if she brings up Snoke again, if _he_ does? He’ll shut down once more, undoubtedly. There’s no way around it, being reminded of how glaringly absurd it is that they’re still here together after escaping the First Order, doing nothing productive. Hiding from all the answers they should be running towards. Hiding from _help_.

Logically, he knows the Resistance would accept Rey if they returned together. She’d sent Chewbacca to their aid in the Crait System, after all, and his mother would recognize Rey’s undeniable loyalty despite her absence. It’s himself he’s worried about with everything he’s done to thwart his mother’s cause because, _logically_ , he should be imprisoned and killed. Or on the off chance they might spare him, he has no doubt the Rebels would charge him with bitter work in whatever hovel they’d chosen for their current base — if they had even that — as a mode of retribution and security.

And he could handle the possible detention or forced labor so long as he would still get to see Rey from time to time, but he doubts that privilege would be granted to him, along with several others.

It’s selfish reasoning, he knows, when all Rey wants is to learn the true nature of their bond. He wanted that too, still does in some regard, but it’s so _comfortable_ here on Raxus. Pretending there’s nothing in the whole galaxy except the two of them. No politics, no plotting, no war. Just _them_ …

_Why can’t that be enough for her?_ he ponders, kicking the sand under his feet roughly, childishly. He’s made it enough for himself, hasn’t he?

As if in response to his frustration, the wind changes. Dust clouds roll gritty and thick over the horizon, darkening the stark, blue sky as they push forward. Closer.

He groans, falling back into the dunes because he is _not_ walking through _that_. Maybe if he lets the sand swallow him he’ll finally be rid of this wasteland and wake up. Though the pessimist in him thinks it unlikely.

Yet there’s something familiar about the scent of the air and the whipping of the wind, a nearly recognizable static surrounding him. He flicks his head up, surveying the stretch of sandy nothingness and the dark, roiling clouds polluting the sky.

Lightning strikes in the distance.

_That’s never happened before…_ Maybe he’s waking up, maybe he’s finally reached the dream’s end. _Wishful thinking_ , he chides himself, laying his head back down and screwing his eyes shut to the still bright patch of sky above him. He’ll most likely have to wait _this_ out as well.

And he does. Letting the grains of sand beat at his skin as the winds pick up more and more speed, watching the sunlight disappear into the storm behind his eyelids. He can feel himself being buried, breathing in the sand, allowing it to fill his lungs and carry him down until… 

Until he smells smoke.

His eyes fly open, dust obscuring his vision immediately, irritating wetness out from his tear ducts. He hisses, throwing a protective arm over his face as he stands, trying to make sense of the direction the smoke is coming from without his sight.

An unnerving sense of recollection and curiosity overcomes him despite the unnecessary need for investigation. He’d seen lightning far off on the horizon and it’s no doubt closer now that _however long_ has passed.

But why is his neck prickling? His heart racing? Why does he want to _run_?

He takes a blind step forward, attempting to part the dust clouds with the Force to little success. Even if he could somehow stop the torrent of sand from whirring around him he wouldn’t be able to see much of anything; it would seem ‘night’ has already blanketed the desert. So he should be awake, shouldn't he?

Even so, Ben pushes forward, determined to sniff out the cause for his sudden alarm as his hands begin to shake in…apprehension? Fear? Anger, perhaps? He’s not entirely sure and that only causes the shaking to worsen. Spreading up his arms, jostling his shoulders and weakening his knees until he’s clodhopping _and_ nearly blind.

_What is going ON?_ He wants to shout but feels a telltale tightness in his throat and stops himself. _It’s just a dream...only a dream_ , he assures himself, knowing full well Rey is asleep next to him in their little bunk. If he succumbs to his panic _here_ , he's sure to wake her _out there_ and he’s already peeved her enough these past few days.

Yet just as his heart rate begins to slow, his eyes finally adjusting to the grainy darkness, the sandstorm suspends bluntly, it’s motion reminiscent of being underwater. But Ben doesn’t have time to contemplate the oddity of the situation before another scent joins the smoke in his nose: burning wood, burning _flesh_.

He pivots on his heels, spinning around to better survey his darkened surroundings despite his eyes still being aggravated and everything blending together.

But that _smell_ , he knows that smell. He remembers it…

Firelight catches in the corner of his blurred vision and he shifts towards it, _runs_ towards it.

He knows this, he remembers this and he doesn’t want to. But he has to be sure.

The stench of death grows along with the wretched, orange glow of flame as he approaches. Shapes become more defined. The remains of a hut. Debris scattered to his left. Scorched bodies to his right. Pale, knowing moons risen above a burning temple.

_No…no, no, no…_

He wants to flee, wants to crawl as far away from this place as he can, to bury himself in the desert, and pray he wakes up. But then he sees… _himself_ , about five meters ahead with his back turned, kneeling in the dirt, his face turned to the night sky, the very image of helplessness.

Even with the considerable amount of sand still in his eyes, Ben doesn’t need to see clearly to remember this moment.

The sight should encourage him to turn tail, and _fast_ , but instead, it gives him pause. A masochistic part of him wants to relive this memory, wants to be assured of the events that forced him down his path. The instant he understood the fallacy of trust in full.

They’ll be coming to condemn him soon, Voe and Hennix and _Tai_ , he’s sure of it. And he’s going to watch it through with sick anticipation, in nothing less than self-pity.

He waits. And waits. And waits. But they never arrive, their ship nowhere in sight.

He shuffles in place, nervous energy dripping through his veins as he clenches his eyes shut and… “I didn’t want this,” he murmurs, hoping to speed this encounter along with memory before he loses his mind. “I didn’t want this. I _never_ wanted this!” A croaking sob rips from his throat as his knees start to give way, but he plants his feet steady into the sand and screams, “I NEVER WANTED _THIS_!”

His other self gasps at the outburst in front of him and whips around, springing to his feet nimbly and…he’s too small. Backlit by the flames and standing now at full height he is much, _much_ too small. His shoulders are too narrow and his limbs too lithe. There’s something elegant to the slope of his neck and the flare of his hips and…

“Ben?” A soft, tear-stricken voice calls out and he jolts, taking a step back.

_No. Why is she here? No, no, no…_

“Ben,” Rey tries again, edging closer. “Why didn’t you tell me?” And, oh, she sounds so compelling, so understanding. But he shouldn’t be dreaming of her. Not here. She deserves only to exist in his sweetest of dreams. Why would he imagine her _here_? “You never told me you didn’t—”

“This isn’t real,” he spouts, raising a hand to her wary approach. “You’re not real.”

“What are you on about?” She takes another step, and another, and another. He wipes a trembling hand over his eyes, trying to scrub the remaining dust away. “I’m right here.”

She’s close enough now that he can make out the details of her, for the most part. She’s in his old sleep robes, tattered and scorched on the edges. Her hair is cropped shorter, almost exactly like his, and her dirt-stained face is streaked with tears. Still, he can’t help but think how lovely she looks even like this, even when that should be the last thought on his mind in this burning graveyard.

“Please,” he steps back again, “please, leave.”

“Why?” Her brows knit together, flummoxed, uneasy.

“Rey,” he begs, face falling into his hands. “This is a dream, this is a dream. Wake _up_!” He can’t say why the sight of her amongst all this makes his gut churn, but if he doesn’t remove himself soon he knows he’ll wake up hurling.

But then her small, calloused hands come to rest over his, prying them away from his face. Equally as tender as they are provoked because, even in his imagination, she is iron-willed. “This isn’t a dream, Ben. It’s a memory, isn’t it?”

Lifting his gaze to hers, he nods. Another salt track runs over her cheek at the admission and it’s instinct entirely that raises his thumb to brush it away. She leans into his palm, breathing out something like relief.

“This is the first time you’ve been here. You weren’t in the other ones,” she whispers contentedly.

He pulls his hand away and she frowns, “What other ones?”

“Your memories,” she moves into his space again, brushing more dust from his hair, his cheeks, his shoulders, “I’ve been alone these last few nights. But you’re here this time.”

“What— What do you mean?” _She’s been alone?_ But it’s the first time he’s dreamt of her.

“Maybe it’s because you finally spoke to me before I fell asleep last night…” She smiles somberly up at him. “Dreams are odd that way, I guess, reflecting reality. Though I figured these were all Force visions, but maybe they’re ju—”

“This is _my_ dream,” he breaks in. “ _I’ve_ been walking through this desert for four nights now. Alone…” He motions to the sandy nothingness around them, then to the still burning temple behind her, “But it’s the first time I’ve dreamt of _this_.”

Rey looks around his frame, her widened eyes squinting at the horizon before returning to him perplexedly. “We’re not in a desert, Ben. And this is my dream.” She reaches for his hands, turning them over again and again before locking their fingers together. The confusion on her face gives way to contemplation, which eventually gives way to discernment. “Or, maybe…I’m dreaming _with_ you…”

“You— You’re here?”

“If by ‘here’, you mean on a planet in the Unknown Regions, then yes, I think so.” She smirks wryly only to let out a hollow sigh a beat later, “Or if you mean in your mind presently, I think so as well. Just like you’re in mine.”

She’s inside his head? But he hadn’t let her in… And she’d said there were other memories she’d seen, hadn’t she? What were they? Why _this_ one?

She shouldn’t be here. There are many a memory he’d gladly give her access to, but this?

_Why this?_

“You have to leave,” he gasps, breath coming in short bursts once again. “ _Please_ , Rey.”

Her brow furrows as her grip on his hands pulses tighter, “But what abo—”

“ _Go_!” he bellows, though not before turning away from her imploring gaze in something dangerously close to shame. “You can’t be here… You can’t see—”

“I’ve already seen, Ben!” _I know, I know, I know…_ “You could have told me what happened, I would have listened.”

He stalks forward clumsily, away from the temple, away from his past, disentangling himself from her soothing pull even though she’s sure to follow.

_Wake up…_

“Ben, please!” Her footsteps sound through the sand.

_Wake up!_

“BEN!” Her voice is wet, straining.

_WAKE UP!_

————

He opens his eyes to the dim light of glow panels lining the ceiling above him; they cast the crew cabin into flat, grey relief. He takes in a long breath, filling his lungs — sans sand — with recycled air.

He’s unsure as to what time it is outside but it doesn’t matter because he’s awake. _Finally…_

But no sooner than his breath has been caught is it being expelled from his body once more as Rey springs from her prone position beside him and clambers atop his chest.

There’s fury in her hazel eyes, but so are there tears. And they rain over her cheeks heatedly, falling onto his skin and searing. She kisses him then, hard and fast, not opening her mouth but pressing enough to _bruise_.

He goes to wrap his arms around her waist in natural response but she… 

… _slaps_ him… 

Not hard, not even enough to sting. But enough to get her point across and he drops his hold.

She rips her lips away from his, panting raggedly, wetly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she cries, “Why didn’t you tell me that you didn’t burn Luke’s temple?”

Her nails dig into his shoulders and he swallows. Not only in response to her demands but also for the feral curl of her lip that calls to mind the forest on _Starkiller Base_. She’s breathtaking and he begins to wonder if he might prefer them this way: her toeing the line of the boiling point while he basks in her rage.

She shoves at his chest impatiently, “ _Why_?”

“I— I didn’t do it,” he stammers, looking away from her seething gaze. “But I didn’t stop it, either.”

“But you didn’t _do it_! You just said you never wanted it to happen!” Her chin quivers, betraying her fuming countenance for the briefest of seconds before she’s all but snarling at him, “I _don’t care_ if you ‘didn’t stop it’! You didn’t have a choice! Nobody ever gave you a choice…” her voice warbles as she trails off, letting her head fall with the violent quaking of her shoulders.

_She’s crying…She’s crying for me…_

He wants to comfort her, or explain all the reasons why he’s not worth her tears, but he feels his chest sink under the weight of her unguarded concern. It’s unfathomable, that someone as resilient as her should weep over his mistakes and misfortunes. Which is why the question that flies from his mouth settles in the air shorter than intended, “Why do you care?”

He’d asked her that once before when she wanted to know his favorite color, only then it had been in surprise at the triviality of the question. Now he asks because he can’t justify a galaxy where he’s worthy of her affections, of her patience. Force knows he’s done nothing to earn them. The only plausible reason he can conjure is that she pities him and can’t bring herself to watch his guilt consume him, so she works to keep it at bay.

But after an achingly long moment of charged silence, she finally lifts her head and murmurs, “Why shouldn’t I?”

Neither moves, neither makes a sound.

Until his neck prickles and her gaze hardens, the line of her mouth forming something just shy of a sneer. “How many times do I have to tell you that _I want you_?” she grits out. “I don’t pity you. I never have. But that doesn’t mean I can’t _hurt_ for you…”

His breath catches.

“I try to talk to you about things like _this_ and you always shut me out,” she carries on. “I’ve pretended not to care for _weeks_ , but— But I tell you any and everything you want to know about me and get next to nothing in return! And then— Then I healed your hand and you were so open with me, and I thought we were _getting somewhere_! But what do you do? You avoid me for _four days_! You act like you’re some unforgivable _beast_ after telling me, essentially, that we should never have met!” She’s sobbing again and he hasn’t an inkling on how to make her stop, how to atone for yet another hurt he’s caused her.

“Do you know how that makes me feel?” She sits back on his chest and runs her nails through her temples frustratedly. “I didn’t even bother checking the bond because I knew it wouldn’t be open! But I’ve been having dreams about you, and I feel like I can’t even tell you about those! Can’t ask you about your past! Maker forbid your past!”

“Rey, the things I’ve done…” he tries, but she cuts in swiftly.

“I know about the things you’ve done! I’m well aware of them!” She shouts even as her body deflates atop his. Her tone is more level when she speaks again, “I’m not oblivious, Ben, I’ve seen what you’re capable of, your hatred. But I left with you anyway because— because that’s a part of you. And I don’t want to be with a version of you that’s missing some of its pieces.”

It clicks then, with her red-rimmed eyes burning into him. After weeks of denying her honesty, of thinking she couldn’t truly mean what she was saying.

_She wants…_ all _of me…_

And what’s worse is it’s not the first time she’s told him so.

But still, “It can’t be that easy, Rey.”

She laughs humorlessly, “Who says it has to be difficult?”

Leaning forward, she takes his face in her hands, peppering kisses over his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. And all the while he lies immobile, wondering if this is, in fact, what shock feels like.

“Nothing in our lives has ever been easy,” she breathes against his lips. “But this _can_ be. _Please_ …”

He feels himself nod, the minute motion causing his head to swim slightly. Or maybe that’s just how his brain reacts to her all the time.

“Just talk to me, even if you feel like you can’t. That’s all I’m asking, Ben.”

“I will,” he promises hoarsely and finds that he means it. He couldn’t deny her anything now even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t. Not by a long shot.

She smiles ruefully and kisses his brow, wet drops rolling down her face and catching in his hair. “Thank you,” she hums.

And what he wouldn’t do to keep a smile on her face, even a small one such as that. What he wouldn’t give to make her _happy_.

“Rey, I— I…” She peers down at him thoughtfully, expectantly. He lifts his arms from where he’d pinned them to his sides after her palm had come in contact with his cheek, cautiously. “Can I hold you?” he finally mutters, the ache to wrap himself around her overwhelming the fleeting courage on his tongue.

She chuckles softly and he feels exalted. But he senses an air of disappointment in her through the bond, though she’s quick to tuck it away. “Yes, please,” she sighs, looping her arms about his middle and pressing her ear to his heart.

“Thank you,” he rumbles as he buries his nose in her hair.

That’ll do for now… 

**————————**

There had been whispers after the execution that such severe measures were unnecessary. That two 'nobodies' did not warrant the extent of pursuit the Supreme Leader was affording them. That more critical issues — the disappeared Resistance, the rebuilding of the Navy, the need for a land base — deserved greater attention.

But those whispers had been silenced — discreetly, of course — along with the lips from which they came. The First Order is no place for the seeds of such insurgency.

Still, Hux can’t entirely ignore the duties afforded to his elevated position. He wants to be firm and unrelenting, but not so much a tyrant as Snoke. That leads to insubordination he has no desire in dealing with.

He also doesn’t plan on following in the footsteps of Snoke’s delegation dependency. Why grant power and authority to those working beneath you for tasks that could be as efficiently completed by yourself? There had been scores of inconsequential positions within the Order under Snoke’s rule simply because he couldn’t bring himself to do a great deal of his own work, and Hux had fallen prey to such methods just like everyone else. Though he’d never admit it.

But he’s always preferred working independently, doing what was necessary on his own terms, rarely giving anyone else the opportunity to muck up his plans.

He’d treated the blaster wound that scavenger rat had given him _on his own_ while searching the _Supremacy’s_ security holo records for usable footage of Ren and the girl _on his own_. All while the ship fell to ruin.

Not that his search had proven fruitful. Snoke had had the cameras in his throne room disabled the instant the Dreadnought had been put into use. A ghastly, power-drunk decision, really. And another now null opportunity for which he could have prevented his death.

Hux doesn’t have much to complain about in _that_ regard, though.

He’s taken over management in other areas of the Order as well, areas that any ‘sensible’ Supreme Leader would scoff at undertaking. The foremost being finances, which, at its root, is only to ensure the disposal of Snoke’s body remains under wraps. A nuisance, perhaps, but necessary.

Supervising the credit flow has it’s fair few advantages though. Now that Ren is gone and no longer siphoning funds into repairs for his ‘outbursts’, Hux can allocate as he so pleases. And there is one particular realm in which he’d like to allocate attention to above any else.

The trek to the Eadu system had, too, proven fruitless. Witnesses at the remote refueling station gave little account of actually _interacting_ with the girl as their security holo had implied. All but one attendant who’d supplied that she had purchased a few items then left in a hurry, claiming to be heading ‘home’.

But Hux isn’t dense. He knows the girl and Ren would never have returned to her homeworld together. But if he was no longer with her, _she_ might have. So he’d sent a flagship to the Jakku System, not because he especially cared whether the sand rat was apprehended if Ren wasn’t with her, but rather to keep up the pretense he’d set at the execution.

Nothing had been found, of course, and weeks without any fresh leads had ensued.

Which brings him to the loathsome truth that if he wants to find Ren and the scavenger — and perhaps the Resistance, too — he’ll have to do something he hasn’t truly done since orchestrating his father’s death. He’ll have to ask for assistance.

He’ll have to hire bounty hunters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My shy self responded to all of my comments from the last chapter! I'm honestly so surprised... 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for your kind words, kudos, bookmarks, etc... I appreciate them more than you know!
> 
> I am forever and always open to suggestions and hope you enjoyed! <333


	14. Like Normal People Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Long. As. Hell. So long that I couldn't even bring myself to include a chapter summary. You have been warned...

It’s mid-morning and it is cold, cold, _cold_. Or the wind is, at least, whipping against Rey’s body as she descends the freighter’s exit ramp onto one of Raxulon’s numerous landing pads.

Ahch-To had been cold, of course, but it had also been humid, the stuffiness of the air acting as a buffer of sorts against the bite of the temperature.

But Raxus doesn’t seem to harbor that same attribute because the air is _crisp_ , cutting through Rey’s already abysmal ‘winter clothing’. Not that it’s winter necessarily, or that her attire was ever intended to be worn in this weather, but it’s the best she has.

All the same, her new wide-necked linen top and sorrel canvas vest, along with her old arm wraps _under_ her loose shirt sleeves, leggings, and boots aren’t quite enough to keep the chill out, and she finds herself tucking her palms into her armpits in an attempt to retain some semblance warmth.

She and Ben had decided the day before, after some awkward — albeit justified — morning conversation regarding _expressing oneself_ , that a second trip to Raxulon was, in point of fact, needed.

They aren’t out of any of their essentials as of yet, but the morsel of Rey’s instincts that still reside on Jakku had started begging for a _stock-up_ as soon as their supplies had run down to the general halfway mark. But she’d held out for a week or so before saying anything, and then for a few more days in unwilling silence per Ben before bringing it up again. Thankfully, after emerging from his guilt-ridden headspace in full, he’d taken it in stride and went about noting items that needed repurchase more so than others.

She was pleasantly bemused to discover that she found the gesture rather attractive in its mundanity.

They’d spent the rest of the day talking. About commonplace, unimportant things like what his favorite food had been as a child— Alderaanian flatbreads, the ones he claimed Leia used to stress-bake. Or what model of flight simulator she had on Jakku— an A-wing. They spoke about significant things too. He told her what happened after the temple had burned, how he felt he couldn’t return home, that he belonged _nowhere_.

Not even with the Knights of Ren, but he’d acted as such despite the discomfort among them he’d alluded to in telling her. He’d stopped there, promising to explain how he came into leadership of the enclave later, and she’d let him because she knew he wasn’t deflecting anymore. That he, quite possibly, never would again.

_No more masks…_

He’d been tense recalling the memories anyhow and she hated seeing him that way. Hated learning how little faith those he was ‘closest’ with had in him, in a time when trust like that would have been vital. Hated hearing how viciously he’d been pursued by his peers, cornered into making rash decisions.

But she couldn’t help the thrill that overtook her at every fraction of his past he revealed to her. And he’d eased into the act of it more seamlessly than she would have ever anticipated.

He gave her confirmation as well that the dreams she’d been having of him were indeed memories relived. And the truth of that echoed hurt into a warm, dark corner of her mind that always reminds her errantly of him.

“I wasn’t aware teeth could actually chatter,” Ben sniggers beside her and she doesn’t need to look up to know he’s smirking that, how do they say, shit-eating grin. But she can’t even bring herself to be ruffled by it because, stars, he’s _smiling_ again.

“Oi, desert dweller,” she scoffs with upped dramatism, “give me a break…” Though she takes extra care to tighten her hold on herself, flexing her muscles for more heat as she used to on particularly chilly Jakku nights. Hoping to still her working jaw in the process as they continue their trek across the open-air spaceport.

“ _Former_ desert dweller,” Ben corrects and she huffs. Just like her, he’d had questions regarding his dreams from the past week, showing her the sandy dunes from his memory, asking her if she recognized the location. She hadn’t, from the images he’d offered her, it appeared to be nothing more than a plain, indistinct desert. No significance, unlike the scapes of her own visions. “It’s not too bad, though. Just a little windy.”

“Well, you’re in a proper jacket, aren’t you?” Rey mutters, tucking her chin indignantly and glaring from the corner of her eye at the tawny leather number she’d picked out for him the last time they were in the city.

They’ve reached the edge of the port, where repair shops and proletariat businesses become more frequent than landing pads. The squat garages and factories growing denser the further into the city they walk. She’s resigned herself to sulking through the cold temperature as her eyes graze absently over the passing storefronts when Ben hooks an arm around her shoulder, drawing her flush against his side.

She lets out a muffled ‘oof’, rearing back to shoot him an affectionate — though entirely unimpressed — look, but stops short because…he’s so warm.

It shouldn’t surprise her. She’s slept beside him for nearly a month now, she knows the heat of his skin against hers, but he is so, so _warm_. Hot even, blazing through the fabric of her vest and top so quickly it’s almost unbearable.

“Kriff, you’re like a heating unit!” She wriggles within his hold, watching a smirk flit across his lips as he tugs her closer.

“Must be the jacket, then,” he croons and Rey doesn’t quite buy that but smiles anyway, deciding rather that his obscenely and annoyingly _large_ body is simply used to overcompensating in weather like this.

“Hmm, _must_ be. I’ll have to get one before we leave.” But she’s not allowed to appreciate the casual weight of his arm around her frame for long before her eyes catch on a crude, digital sign hanging precariously from the front window of a mechanics garage. The advertisement reads in grainy, white Aurebesh: _**HIRING HANDS**_

Peeking through the transparisteel from afar, she can just make out the sparse bustle of droid and shop workers alike. The spark and glow of fusioncutters at work on speeder bikes and transports and everything in between, heads ducking into engine units and exhaust piping.

Her fingers twitch.

A sweep of longing rushes through her chest and she recalls her speeder on Jakku, how every rusted edge and shotty bit of wiring belonged to the talent of her hands and her hands alone. She’d sweat through days, weeks, _months_ assembling the hodgepodge vehicle, fine-tuning its shape and function to her needs, making it her own.

The only device she’s worked with since arriving on Raxus has been the water recycling system in the freighter and her hands, now alert to the possibility of more challenging tasks, begin to fidget.

_That could be me in there…_ she muses, gaze tracking a grease-stained, jumpsuited Zabrak man through the window. _Earning credits instead of portions…_

Ben’s palm swipes up and down her arm erratically, snapping her attention away from the garage. “Or get one now,” he grumbles. “You _are_ cold…”

“Huh?” She tilts her head back to look at him, tepid concern painting his features.

He raises a brow. “A jacket. You’re freezing, we should just get one now.” He motions past the industrial block with a nod, already moving to shrug out of his sleeves. “You can wear mine until we get there.”

_Oh._

“Right,” she peers ahead through the back-entrance arches of Raxulon’s downtown area. They’re not too far away now. “Yeah, sure… And no, don’t worry, I’ll be fine until we get one, promise.”

It’s not entirely lost on Rey how considerate he’s being, and maybe she should take his jacket, but she’s stuck on that garage, ideas taking shape in her cold-addled mind.

They still have _plenty_ of credits left over from the shuttle but, eventually, they will run out. Yet Rey’s mechanical skills are vastly above par, if she could land a position at that repair shop, even at a trainee level, she and Ben wouldn’t have to worry about where and how to acquire credits next.

“Do you want to try the store where we found this?” Ben asks, tugging on the leather of his collar, a roguish glint in his eye. “Or were their selections too tame for you?”

“Hmm,” she offers a scant smile, trying to refocus herself, “I’m afraid so, I’ll need something far more opulent…”

Ben chuckles, “How opulent? A statement piece?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

He laughs then, full and ebullient, for the first time since she healed his hand. _I want to always be the reason you laugh,_ she thinks, _I want you to be nothing but happy when you’re with me, I want to climb on top of you and burn that smile onto my lips…_

But Rey understands, at least, the importance of decency in a public place. So she grasps his hand, kissing each knuckle languorously instead, silently promising that later she _will_ kiss him the way that she wants.

“I think it should be green,” he hums low, twisting his palm up and locking their fingers together.

“Oh, does that constitute opulence?” she teases as they pass under the arches and into the agora.

“No, but you said it was your favorite, so—” he shrugs uncouthly, and she grins.

She’s never outright told him she preferred the color green but he must have been listening to her in passing, catching her mumble the sentiment absentmindedly. The idea warms her chest.

After a quarter-hour of aimless searching through the plaza and a short turbolift ride, they manage to find a storefront in the upper levels of the center advertising more _colorful_ garment selections than the business where they’d previously purchased their clothes from. Not to say that the store's options are particularly fanciful or feminine but, at the end of the day, that’s never really been her goal.

She peruses the racks of coats dutifully, avoiding the blatantly ‘fashion-oriented’ side of the shop in exchange for the more sensible selections. She thinks she catches Ben snort at her obvious disdain for form without function but brushes it off. Why would she want to wear something that serves no purpose for her day to day dealings? It’s absurd really…

Eventually, she decides on an uncharacteristically _bright_ jacket with a respectable amount of pockets, the leather dyed two-toned in a grass green that reminds her of Takodana and a rich, dark grey. It’s warm, too, which she tells herself is the only reason she’s attracted to it, not the pleasing colors or the way the waist hugs hers flatteringly, definitely not.

But Ben must like it, too, because they’re barely out of the store when he tucks his arms around her from behind and kisses her ear with an embarrassingly loud smack, murmuring, “Now _I’m_ cold…”

She swats the back of his head lightly and disentangles herself from his grasp. “Tough,” she snickers, clutching his hand once more and setting out for the rest of their errands.

Unlike their last trip to Raxulon, the uncertainty of capture isn’t breathing down Rey’s neck with every step she takes and she allows herself the inexplicable pleasure of _meandering_. Though not one for wasting time, she does take comfort in simply strolling from shop to shop, from vendor to vendor with Ben, caring only the basest amount for how long they spend ‘out’.

Sentients and droids pass them by throughout the complex, giving no indication whatsoever that the two of them together might be even remotely recognizable. It makes Rey’s heart flutter. Stars, she feels so _safe_ just being a person, common folk, _normal_.

Few items, aside from what they need, give them pause as they continue through their browsing, and once they’ve worked their way back down to the main, entrance level Ben asks, clearing his throat, “Do you, uh, need more,” he coughs, “pills?”

_Ah…_

She does, in fact, need more pills but his sudden flush is so perplexingly endearing she has to stop and take a good look at him. He’d acted this way last time the subject of contraception had been breached and she’s beginning to understand why, a wash of uncertainty that doesn’t belong to her flowing through her headspace from the bond.

Had she initially opted for an implant — or something else semi-permanent in function — there wouldn’t exist the unspoken implication of ‘maybe’ and ‘someday’ that does now. But her choice had been intentional. She hasn’t a clue how long they’ll be staying on this planet, or if they’ll ever leave, but she knows somewhere down the line…quite possibly…she might want… 

…a family…

And it’s only striking her now what a frightening concept that would be for someone like Ben with what he did to his—

_Don’t go there…_ the practical side of her brain cuts in, saving her from what’s sure to have been a pounding headache.

She sighs. “Yeah, I do. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Sure,” he mutters, the line of worry in his brow fading minutely. Then, looping his arm around her middle once more, — oh, so casually — he asks, “Can we eat while we’re here? You know, _real_ food?”

It hadn’t taken terribly long for Ben to grow tired of the dried fruits and ration packs that make up their daily meal supply. Complaining about the lack of flavor and the dry texture they leave in his mouth. But he’d shut up promptly at Rey’s mention of the only source of nutrients she’d had on Jakku being veg-meat and polystarch. And she doesn’t really know what he’d been expecting anyway; their ship doesn’t have a kitchen or cookware in any capacity, it’s not as if they can actually _prepare_ a meal.

“Sure,” she echoes back, not one to turn down food, whether it be the _real_ kind or ration packs.

After a spell of perusing they end up at a cramped diner of sorts that Ben picks out because…what is she going to do? She couldn’t distinguish one form of cuisine from another even if she wanted to. And she doesn’t. It’s all _food_ , isn’t it? Why should she care where it comes from?

The little eatery is tucked in between a brightly illuminated tech business and a herb and spices shop adorned with brilliant red and teal streamers hanging from its ceiling, a sign over the entrance claiming they have fresh Nysillin in stock.

Once they find an empty table and a rickety serving astromech comes to wait on them, Ben looks to her as if to ask what she wants. Like she has any idea what to do in a restaurant or what half of the items on the holo-menu presented to them are. Thankfully he realizes her inexperience and orders two plates of flatcakes for them, looking rather embarrassed about it for whatever reason. Rey’s heard of flatcakes before and knows they’re a somewhat standard meal throughout the galaxy, knows they can be fixed up and personalized with add-ons and flavor enhancers. But she doesn’t know what any of those might be.

When the droid returns with their plates after an exceedingly short wait time, it offers a second tray filled precariously with bottles and shakers and jars, various powders and what she can only assume are syrups inside.

“Uhm,” Ben clears his throat, plucking items from the platter seemingly at random and eyeing her nervously. “I don’t know what you want.”

“Neither do I,” she mumbles, a little overwhelmed by the selection.

“Oh-kay, uh…” He takes a couple more containers and dismisses the droid with a hushed ‘thank you’, turning back to her awkwardly. “Corellian cinnamon,” he points to a shaker filled with fine, brown powder, then to one of similar texture but colored white, “yyeger sugar. This one’s honey, poptree syrup, muja sauce, vanilla, bluefruit jam, and dacha-syrup.”

Rey’s eyes bounce from container to container, widening in disbelief. “You put all of these on here?” she gawks, circling her finger ‘round the condiments then pointing to her short stack of flatcakes.

“Oh! No…no, no, no, sorry,” Ben practically blanches. “You don’t have to put anything on them if you don’t want, they’re fine plain. These are just options if you want more, uh…options…” He screws his eyes shut and Rey can spot the tips of his ears turning red.

She still can’t figure what he’s so embarrassed for.

“What do you like?” she inquires softly.

He looks up at her, a fragment of his unease dissipating with the question. Huffing briskly, he reaches for the shaker he’d identified as cinnamon and empties a few taps over his plate, then takes the poptree syrup and drizzles it thickly onto the top cake. Setting the bottle down, he leans back in his seat and raises his eyes to hers once again, something strangely petulant dancing in them.

“That’s it?”

He shrugs. “It’s how I used to eat them.” And there’s really no weight to his statement, not like when he normally mentions his past and his ‘used to’s’. It’s just…casual, and that makes Rey’s stomach swirl warmly. 

_He’s comfortable, he trusts you…_

“All right then,” she concedes, grinning as she copies his endearingly underwhelming flatcake preparation.

They eat quietly, — still attempting to remain inconspicuous, even if unwittingly — and Rey has to admit the poptree syrup and cinnamon pair well with the airy texture of her cakes. Though she doubts she’d dislike her meal even if it tasted strange.

Soft, staticky music plays from _somewhere_ within the diner and the amalgamation of pleasant noise, the warmth of her new jacket and of the food in her belly, and _Ben_ makes her chest feel alight and bubbling.

_This is nice_ , she finds herself thinking absently, sighing under her breath, content.

“You’re musical,” Ben says low, leaning forward and drawing her attention.

“What?”

“You finger,” he points to the hand she’s holding her utensil with, “you’re tapping it time to the music. Your head, too.”

“Oh,” she whispers, immediately stilling in her seat. “I hadn’t noticed…”

He smiles timidly, contemplating something, then, “Leia was musical. She used to sing to me.”

Rey's eyebrows shoot up and she inches closer, as close as she can with a table between them, knowing full well her expression is hopelessly entranced with interest. His use of past tense irks her a bit, as does calling his _mother_ by her first name, but he’s sharing without resistance or prompting and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get enough of that no matter how much of a habit he makes of it.

“Her voice was so broad,” he adds wistfully. “She could make herself sound so faint and small if she wanted to, or larger than life, like a professional. There was always music playing when she was home. Sometimes she’d force Han to dance with her if one of her favorite songs came on.”

Rey nudges his toe with hers under the table, hooking their ankles leisurely with a vague sense that the motion holds a double meaning but seeking the anchor of his contact anyway, asking, “Did she ever dance with you?” It’s a bit of a throwaway question; she’d really like to know about his _home_. But she’ll save that for a more private environment than this.

“Yes,” he mumbles, “I wasn’t an exceptionally good partner, though.” The tip of his boot runs along the back of her calf deliberately, evocatively. “I was clumsy, always tripping over my feet…”

“Mmh.” She has trouble picturing that with how steady, how solid, he is now, but she snickers in trying to.

They fall into silence again, and it’s _comfortable_ , charged with a dulcet tension entirely opposite from the kind that usually accompanies conversations like these. The toes of their shoes continuing to trace amorphous patterns over one another’s calves and ankles all the while.

“This is strange,” Ben says eventually, cutting through the quiet as he motions a hand between the two of them.

“Us?”

“No, I mean, yes, that’s arguable. But _this_ —” He waves again, wider, indicating more of the space around them.

Rey lifts a brow.

He sighs, shoulders drooping, and his blush from earlier returning. “Look at where we are, at what we’re doing.”

She casts a glance around the diner. There’s a small family eating at a table a few paces away from them, an elderly Tholothian man nursing a mug a couple of paces further. Droids scurry to and fro in the kitchen half-obscured from public view as people she can see through the front window do much the same outside— she wonders errantly how many of them work and make a living. Everyone and everything unbothered, business being unquestionably and politely ignored.

“Nobody’s paying us any mind?” she tries, growing increasingly perplexed. But they’d already established that ages ago… 

Ben’s face borders on an almost unnatural shade of red as he runs a hand over it, a nervous breath escaping his lips. “We look like we’re on a date…” he mutters finally and Rey feels her cheeks heat at the realization.

She supposes that _is_ what they look like. Just a regular couple eating a regular meal. And that, considering all that they’ve seen and done, what they _truly are_ , is beyond strange.

“Well,” she laughs gracelessly, “you did say you wanted to blend in.”

He hums amusedly, shaking his head. “Just like normal people do…”

_Normal people…_ Normal people who can walk around a city and not worry about capture or imprisonment. People who have families and jobs and earn a salary. Who put their skills to use when and where they can. _Normal people like me…_

————

After his talk with Skywalker, Finn had returned to the hangar bay feeling…open-minded, to put it in simpler terms.

The discussion hadn’t made him trust Ren, — and still hasn’t in the succeeding week regardless of _everyone_ seeming to be in various forms of agreement with the old Jedi — but the concept of Han and Leia’s son potentially returning with Rey someday doesn’t rankle as much as it had.

If Rey believes there’s something to be saved of that wretch then he’ll have confidence in her judgment; he hadn’t known her to be fickle in her pursuit of what she believed in. Whether that be her family returning for her on Jakku, or the Resistance’s cause, or the legends of the Force. Though, he supposes he can’t qualify the latter as legend any longer with what he’s borne witness to these past few weeks.

Something Luke had mentioned regarding _silent communication_ during their walk had unsettled and intrigued Finn all at once, prompting him to question the notion further the day after their first conversation. To which Skywalker, once Finn had located him meandering at the edge of the base, had rather eagerly explained in greater detail.

_“Force bonds,”_ he’d revealed, _“they serve as a bridge of sorts between two Force sensitive individuals, — quite frequently Master and Apprentice — allowing them to communicate thoughts and feelings to one another through the link. Leia and I have one.”_ He’d smiled dimly at his own words. _“But it manifested itself long before I began instructing her; entirely familial in origin.”_

That had efficiently cleared up how exactly Skywalker knew so much of Finn’s concern for Rey. But there had been more… 

_“You mentioned something like that about Rey and Ren,”_ Finn had prodded. _“Is it the same?”_

The older man had combed a hand through his beard ponderously before giving a short, yet somewhat gracious response, _“From what I can figure, from what I’ve read,”_ and Finn hadn’t needed clarification to ascertain that Luke was referring to those old books which had caused such grisly discourse between he and his sister, _“what they share is something similar to a Force bond but, dare I say, stronger…”_

Finn had wanted to know more, wanted to continue prodding, but Skywalker’s uncharacteristic personability had run out during the short pause Finn took to think up another question and he’d excused himself for a walk. Alone.

So Finn tried again the next day.

_“You said you and the General’s bond is familial,”_ he’d pressed after finding the older man conversing with Chewie in the makeshift mess hall. _“Could it be the same for Rey and your nephew?”_

Chewie had snorted a rather human-like laugh and left the two of them to talk.

_“No,”_ Luke grunted, _“I’m telling you, kid, I don’t know how their bond came about. But you’ll be the first I contact when I figure it out.”_ He’d patted his shoulder then, and stalked off to the _Falcon_ where Finn knew those old books were still stored.

And the day after that, worn out from receiving answers only in the obscure, he’d asked Poe for help. _“I’m gonna go look through those texts, y’know, the ones Skywalker and the General were screaming about. I need you to be my lookout…”_

Poe, of course, knew exactly what he was on about and rolled his eyes at the suggestion. But he must have been tired of Finn ceaselessly asking questions on the matter — hell, Finn was tired of not knowing — and assented to the request.

Sneaking onto the _Falcon_ wasn’t difficult because, well, they hadn’t really been sneaking. People come and go from the old freighter constantly, snatching ration packs from the kitchenette’s storage units or using the ‘fresher for a sonic. What _had been_ difficult was finding a secluded area of the ship to peruse the ancient texts.

He’d eventually stuffed himself into the engine room, with Poe dutifully waiting at the entrance, pretending to be going through a routine check of the hyperdrive in case Skywalker decided to make his way on board.

But a dreadful truth made itself obvious as Finn began to investigate in earnest: a majority of the old, cracked leather books weren’t actually written in Aurebesh, and what he could read explained things like crystal energies and novitiate lightsaber forms. Everything he had no interest in learning about.

He’d left the ship frustrated, an equally, if not more so, peeved Poe Dameron in tow.

And the next day, sensing that he was being watched while helping install anti-sensor nets left over from the old Rebellion around the base, Finn caught sight of Skywalker aiming the most exhausted glare he’d ever witnessed at him from the ramp of the _Falcon_ , a leather-bound book in his grasp. He’d known. _Of course_ he’d known, the kriffing Jedi.

Finn decided to drop his pursuit after the silent, terse interaction.

But a full week after learning of things like _Force bonds_ , the concept is still on his mind and it’s Rose — trying only to check the turret’s wiring of the landseer a dozen or so of the Naboo had arrived on — who has to listen to him ramble.

“Do you think she went after him _because_ of the bond?” he muses aloud, knowing full well Rose has probably had enough of him, but entirely unable to stop himself.

“I really wouldn’t know, Finn,” she grunts, burying her hand deeper into the circuitry. “Can you pass me the wire cutters?” Her right leg kicks out behind her, swinging in the general direction of the _Falcon’s_ old tool kit to guide him.

He’s glad she’s feeling better. Beyond glad, really. There’d been a few days, not long after Chewie had picked up the remaining Resistance in Solo’s ship, where it seemed like her balance would never return and her double vision never subside. And he’d felt responsible— still does. If he hadn’t been so reckless trying to pilot that First Order shuttle through the closing bay doors on Crait she’d never have gotten her concussion. If he’d taken better stock of the situation and stayed calm the impact would never have thrashed them about in the cockpit. Never would have whipped her head forward, then back, _hard_ , into the counterintuitively uncushioned headrest of the copilot’s seat. She wouldn’t still need help walking from time to time after so long has passed.

But he can’t dwell on that when she’s so clearly feeling up in spirits today, not even asking for his assistance when making her way to the landseer earlier.

“Here,” he says, placing the wire cutters in her hand and then, “I’m sorry, I know you probably don’t want to hear me talk about all this crazy Jedi stuff or about Rey or—” he scratches the back of his head, “sorry…”

“No, it’s all right,” she mumbles, voice sounding a bit far off as she invests deeper into her work. “You want to know what’s going on, that makes sense. I guess I just don’t understand why you’re more concerned than General Organa or Skywalker even. They don’t seem as worried as you, at least, not from what we all can see.”

He does have to admit he’s fixated on the issue of Rey _and_ this newly revealed ‘Force bond’ more than he’d ever intended to, seeking answers where he knows he won’t find them, when he knows, perhaps, that he’s not meant to. But he’d been raised in a system that gave only orders, no reason for why certain things were done, why certain things happened. He’d simply been expected to comply.

And when he’d left, when he finally threw in all his cards with the Resistance, he’d looked forward to living a life where his ‘why’s’ and ‘how’s’ were never reprimanded or discarded.

But now he’s dealing with questions far beyond the scope of anyone’s experience to properly answer, and even though he knows this situation is preferable to the one he’d been brought up in, it stings just the same.

“I don’t know,” he finally murmurs, “I just have a funny feeling, that’s all. Like when I told you I thought the General was reading my mind that one time on the _Falcon_.”

“Ah.” Short sparks flash as Rose inserts another hand into the turret cannon circuitry panel, clamping or binding or whatever she’s doing in there, he doesn’t pretend to know. She’s buried in her task for another minute or so before, “I don’t think you need to worry though, Finn. If General Organa knows something she’s not going to withhold it from you, she knows you care about Rey.” She huffs, removing her only mildly grimed hands from the ship's internals and wiping them on her pant legs. “I can’t speak for Skywalker, but you said he’d promised to inform you of anything he learned about Force links, right?… Links? No, bonds! Force bonds!”

Finn nods. “Yeah, he did…”

“See?” She smiles encouragingly. “Nobody’s keeping anything from you. _Relax_ …you’re gonna fry your brain.”

He sniggers softly, “Yeah, you’re probably ri—”

He stops.

There’s a tingle down his spine that takes him back to Jakku, when he disobeyed the order to fire on innocents. It takes him back to the moment Maz shoved a lightsaber in his hands on Takodana and told him to _fight_. When he’d watched Han Solo get run through by his _own son’s_ blade. When he’d felt the _Supremacy_ split and _knew_ he and Rose and BB-8 were going to make it out alive.

It’s a turbulent sensation, yet strangely calming like he remembers it being. _Is it resolve?_ he wonders, _No, it’s more than that…_

It’s a warning, or an instinct, or precognition.

A feeling… 

A feeling that something is coming. Something is _here_. Something important.

————

It had taken Leia a grand total of three days after her brother’s damning admission to stop dwelling on it _constantly_ and divest her focus into more present issues.

Not to say she’s forgotten the offense. No, but she spends the days now drifting between thoughts of betrayal in regard to her twin, yet traitorous relief at his presence. Thoughts of confusion over Rey and Ben’s disappearance, to strategic planetary positions for holding a permanent base. Thoughts of hopelessness with so few rallying to Resistance after over four weeks on Ajan Kloss, but also great hope in — if her assumptions are correct — what Rey can accomplish to help her son.

She wonders if such blind faith in someone she scarcely knows is the musing of a fool. Though if it is, why does it feel like liberation?

If Han couldn’t reach Ben, but Rey could, what right does Leia have to fret over the fashion in which he’s brought home? Whether that be morally as she’d sensed through the Force weeks ago, or physically, which she’s still holding out for.

Though her enthusiasm for the latter is dwindling steadily with each day no new word of her son’s relative whereabouts filters out from the First Order.

_Nearly five weeks…_ she ruminates glaring down at her salvaged star chart from the old base. Five weeks since she first learned he’d left for _who knows where_ with Rey. Five weeks since the Resistance was almost snuffed out. Five weeks of wandering and waiting and _withdrawing_.

Leia hasn’t spoken to her brother physically since he discovered the ‘sacred Jedi texts’ aboard the _Falcon_ , demanding to know when and how she’d acquired them. His questioning, though aggravated and stern, hadn’t called for the visceral response she’d thrown at him when she asked how in blazes he expected her to know. But _stars_ , if she hadn’t been angry. Still is.

And who can blame her?

What else is one to do when their brother, their most trusted friend, their confidante of _years_ , admits to something so _unforgivable_?

Stew in it, as it turns out. Stew in it and avoid the issue to the best of her ability.

But that takes up a great deal of space within the mind and, despite her superior talent for multitasking, she can’t seem to focus on anything. Which makes seeking out a resident base all the more taxing.

Her star map blinks dimly at her, blue and taunting, seeming to know she can’t think straight worth a damn.

All accounts of the First Order she’s been able to scrounge up have them pinned as idle just outside the Western Reaches, near Sahbrontee I. Luckily for the Resistance, sitting idly, too, _on the other side of the galaxy_ , that means their position should remain safe for the time being. But what’s the point of staying still if they have only scant resources to rebound with? It’s been weeks since any contact has been made with potential allies and Leia, growing wearier with each day that passes, begins to fear the worst: No one else is coming.

That the galaxy has run out of hope, or perhaps even worse, they’ve decided not to care.

And she’s aware she has an asset that could revitalize the people, her _legend_ of a twin, but she’s loath to use him because, well, because she _knows_ he’s not the great hero everyone affords him to be. Not anymore.

But she’s also aware that all it would take is one vid transmission to the open channels of the galaxy, her brother at the forefront claiming he has returned and has placed his _great power_ behind the Resistance’s ranks. One message and thousands of people from thousands of systems would flank to their aid.

Yet there’s a part of her, a trampled, inexorably childish part that hates the notion of hopeless people having their spark restored by a man who ran and hid when he was faced with consequences of his choices. Why should the drive and longing for freedom not be enough to inflame the galaxy against tyranny?

It’s vindictive, she knows, but that had been part of the reason she’d sent her brother to talk with Finn. Reopening their bond and taking advantage of Luke’s promise to ‘do anything’ in order to ‘make things right’. She’d intended to ask — order, in all reality — him in person but the thought of having to look him in the eye while discussing the subject of her son was enough of a deterrent.

He hadn’t seemed fazed by her unspoken mode of communication and had taken to his task dutifully, his blatant loyalty aggravating her already conflicting stances on his presence. But she’d needed Finn’s qualms about her son to be eased. She wasn’t even expecting the truth of the situation to sway the young man to her side, she’d only wanted someone as driven and outspoken about Rey’s absence as him to know all the details. Details he’d been desperate for the moment he laid eyes on Rey and Ben’s wanted holo— just like herself.

She’s still not sure, a week after her request, what Luke had said to him, her communication with her twin returning to nonexistent over the past few days. But she knows _something_ was said because she’s seen Finn and her brother conversing — if you could call it that — around the base semi-frequently.

_Good_ , she thinks, pinching the bridge of her nose as an impending headache from staring too long at blue, blinking star systems begins to make itself known. _At least something is going right around here…_

Taking a steadying breath, she lifts her eyes and gets back to work.

If the Resistance wants any chance of surviving after leaving this moon their choices of base destinations dwindles to systems in the Outer Rim.

There’s always Yavin 4 if they grow desperate enough, but Leia doesn’t see herself submitting to such an obvious base point anytime soon, regardless of how little resources they have. Regardless of no one else joining the cause… 

They might be able to spare some time there if they incorporate the use of the sensor-scattering nets they’d found here, but—

“General!” a voice shouts from somewhere outside the bunker.

Leia groans sharply under her breath, exasperated, but puts on an attentive face as she watches Finn trudge through the makeshift communications bay towards her. She’d been expecting a conversation with him about Luke or Rey or Ben — _someone_ — eventually but, after a week of waiting, she wonders why it has to be _now_. Stars, her head is pounding.

“General, something’s coming!” he calls out, a little more softly now that he’s closer. And Leia, in her composed surprise, notices Rose following after him, a perplexed curve to her brow as she hurries to keep up.

Then, from behind the General, a somehow even more exasperated than herself Dameron calls back, “ _What_?”

She’d asked the young Commander — after finally yielding his position back to him — to aid her in the search for a permanent ground base. But on account of his atypical silence these past few days, he seems to have come across as much success as her: None.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about, General, I’m sorry,” Rose offers by way of explanation, nervousness pinching her features.

Leia straightens her back, shifting her gaze back to Finn — now directly in front of her — waiting for him to expound as the eyes of several communications volunteers begin to track the interaction.

_Free entertainment_ , a voice that sounds very much like Han remarks snidely in her head.

“I can’t explain it,” Finn starts, a frazzled, bright look filling his eyes, “but something’s about to happen, something’s coming _here_. I can _feel_ it…”

Poe mutters a confusion, coming to stand beside her with Threepio as Finn continues, “Has anyone contacted you? Or has the First Order been sighted anywhere near this System?”

“No,” she answers shortly, though not without confusions of her own.

_He can feel something?_

Recentering herself, Leia reaches out to her brother with purpose, and reluctance, for the first time in over a week, finding his signature thrumming within the _Falcon_. She uses her incertitude of the situation Finn has presented her with as a shield against any of her other thoughts escaping through the bond she and her twin share. Then—

_“Leia?”_

_Finn's claiming he’s sensing something,_ she starts, not wasting time on pleasantries with her brother, _says something’s coming… Have you felt anything? I haven’t._

But before Luke can respond, before even Leia can fully ponder _if_ and _how_ Finn’s hunch is legitimate, one of the newly joined Naboo Rebels raises a hand from where he’s stationed near the edge of the communications bay, hollering, “General, he’s right. We have a transport requesting to make contact, along with three X-wings.”

“General,” a young woman, Tabla Zo, calls out next from the intelligence sect of the small bunker. “The transport is converted New Republic, along with the X-wings.”

“Lead X-wing requesting to make planetfall, General,” Connix pipes in, removing her headset and turning towards Leia from her station nearby.

“What the…” Poe whispers, eyeing Finn, then Leia, then back again, Threepio chirping in a ‘Dear me’ after the commander.

Every gaze in the humid cavern-made-bunker is on Leia now, expectant from the sudden and short commotion. She even watches Luke make his way down the _Falcon’s_ ramp to observe, no doubt experiencing the multitude of interactions along with her through the bond.

“Ask— Ask for identification, Lieutenant,” Leia stutters quietly at Connix, feeling a foreign mortification thread it’s way into her bones; she was completely unprepared for this…whatever _this_ is.

“Yes, General,” the blonde replies, replacing her headset back over her ears.

Leia turns to Finn, an appalled look on his face that she’s surely mirroring back. “How did you know?” she whispers urgently.

Finn only shakes his head. Rose and Poe share an alarmed glance.

“Um,” Connix coughs, her usually stoic demeanor slipping for an instant as she shifts back around to Leia. “Lead X-wing identifying as the _voluntold_ Princess of Alderaan, General.” She coughs again.

“Mother of moons,” Leia murmurs, letting that sink in for one second, two, three, four…and then she laughs. Cackling, guffawing really, caring not that everyone in this dingy base will think she’s gone mad.

“Give them clearance,” she finally manages to wheeze out, holding to her side because she hasn’t laughed like this in ages, hasn’t felt this _overjoyed_.

“Wait,” Finn points confusedly at Leia, “Aren’t _you_ the Princess of Alderaan?”

“She most certainly is,” Threepio answers as haughtily as a droid can manage. But Leia waves him off good-naturedly, smiling up at Finn as she does. “That’s a story for another time,” she tells the young defector then, addressing Dameron, “Begin vacating procedures. If she’s brought a transport we’ll be able to bring most, if not all of this equipment with us.”

Dameron side-steps in front of her as she goes to make her way to their make-do landing pads. “Wait, wait, wait, hold on!” He looks skittish, an expression that rarely graces the visage of the young ace. “ _Who_ is here? _Where_ are we going?”

Leia smiles, “An old friend from the Rebellion. Evaan Verlaine…” She pauses, watching baffled recognition flash across Dameron’s face. _A pilot knows a pilot_ , she muses blithely. “As for where we’re going, I couldn’t tell you. But what I _can_ tell you is that Evaan _always_ has a plan.”

————

“I think I should get a job,” Rey whispers low, which is a terribly unfortunate thing to say with Ben kneeling before her, ready to bury his head between her thighs and all.

But she can’t drive the mechanics shop out from her mind. And hurrying through the rest of their errands after their ‘date’, itching for the privacy of their freighter, hadn’t proven enough to tuck it away. Nor had his lips done the trick as they’d burned down her throat, her abdomen, her legs; warm, impatient hands stripping her bare.

The thought had just… _slipped out_ , for all of it.

“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” he asks, peering up at her from below the edge of their bunk. But there’s not a trace of malice in his question, only amusement and bashful teasing, the corner of his mouth ticking upwards with the good-natured jibe.

“No, no, no,” she rushes, trying to blank her mind of everything that’s not _this moment_. It’s been a standard week since they’ve done anything along these lines and her thoughts should be focused on the _here_ and _now_. “I’m not bored, just a little distracted. But go on, I’m okay now, I’m ready…”

He huffs incredulously, though not without affection, his cool breath ghosting over the inside of her thigh, making her hips squirm and her chest redden. “See?” she tries breathlessly, “Not bored.”

“Hmm, we’ll see about that…” And he runs his nose along her faint jut of her hip, pecking feather-light kisses down to the apex of her thighs, taking his own sweet time. She strokes a finger over the curve of his jaw, an encouragement as he hooks her knees over his shoulders and—

“ _There_ …” She shivers, her hips raising to chase the silky thrill of his lips on her center, all attention divested from paid manual labor and redirected to _him_.

“I missed this,” he rumbles after nuzzling his nose against her clit, her thighs trembling beside his ears. “Missed touching you…”

She lets out something halfway between a bark and a cry, “I would have let you, you blockhead! You were the one avoiding _me_!”

His shoulders sag beneath her. “I know…” he sighs, voice nearly inaudible as he tilts his head up. “I’m sorry. I just felt— I don’t— I needed to—”

“I know,” she interrupts, petting his hair back and running her heel soothingly along his spine. “I forgive you.”

He heartens visibly, eyes smiling as he dips his head again, kissing his way fervently down her navel to where he left off, airy giggles escaping Rey’s lips as he goes. “Thank you,” he hums, skimming the rough pads of his fingers up to her knees and back down again.

She likes those little touches the most, they feel appreciative in a way. Even as he swipes his tongue over her entrance, kissing her folds as he would her mouth, he takes care in admiring the rest of her with his hands. Brushing his palms over her hips, holding to her waist, circling them over the small of her back, _mapping_ her.

He’d tried once rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger while going down on her but…that had been _too much_. The dueling sensations making it difficult for her brain to concentrate on, well, blanking. He must have noticed her unease, though, because he’d stopped as soon as he started and hadn’t attempted it again.

His fingers inside her are all right while his mouth works, but she finds a small, scrappy part of her brain prefers the separation still, a leftover instinct of compartmentalization, she assumes. Though she tries not to pay it much mind when she can.

And she wonders, now that she’s more accustomed to all of this, if the contact wouldn’t be so distracting anymore.

Tentatively, she reaches behind her back and grasps his hand, bringing it up and around to cup her breast gingerly. He peeks at her through his lashes, looking rather surprised but pleased nonetheless.

He’s careful as he starts, and she can tell he’s trying to separate the motions of his lips and tongue on her center from those of his palm and fingers over her chest. But it’s _good_ , — more so than usual now that he hasn’t touched her in a week — nowhere near ‘too much’ in the slightest.

She sighs, her back arching a bit as he whispers against her, “Is this okay?” And she nods, breathless, reveling in the feel of his voice ringing through her body.

He doesn’t ask her very often how she’s feeling, not that he’s unconcerned, but he seems not to need the confirmation that what he’s doing is good, or how he could improve. His technique is almost automatic, which is odd, now that she thinks about it…

It’s not long before he brings her to a gentle release, timid almost in his execution, and that makes sense with the ice they’ve been treading on this past week and their inadvertent dry spell. But it doesn’t stop her from wondering… 

“How are you so good at that?” she asks between kisses once he’s clambered his way up onto the bunk, the taste of _her_ on his lips.

“Natural intuition?” he tries, attempting a self-confident smirk that he loses almost instantly as a laugh rolls through his chest. She flicks him on the nose. “I think it might be the same as when we spar,” sincere curiosity brightens his features, “where I know how you might move or strike _there_ , I also know what you might want or need me to do _here_.” He shrugs, smirk returning. “So I suppose natural intuition isn’t too far off, hmm?”

She flicks him again.

But his theory isn’t a bad one. There’s certainly evidence to back it up, and she’s all too eager to make more.

“Come here,” she croons, hooking her arms under his shoulders and pulling him atop her. And he chuckles, burying his face into her neck and kissing just above her pulse point, knowing with experience that she’ll tremble at the contact.

Then she feels him adjust himself at her entrance, and that, too, is more timid than usual. Attentive. As if he’s memorizing every fraction of this instant.

She snaps her head up, brow quirked, “Ben? What are you doing?”

“Hmm? Nothing…” His eyes lift to hers, not quite sheepish, but nearly, as he slides into her. Somehow managing to push forward slow and fast all at once, drawing a low gasp out from her lungs. “Just thinking…”

Her right leg hooks over his waist. “About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away, pumping into her in half rhythm with their heartbeats, pressing his lips to anywhere they can reach on her face as if he needs it. Then, with a stifled groan, “About why you would want a job…”

_Oh._

She supposes now’s as good a time as any to tell him.

“Well, _ah_ ,” she grunts, shifting her hips under his for a better angle. “I saw a repair shop this morning and they, ah, they’re hiring and I just thought, _mmh_ …” His teeth scrape softly along her throat, nails digging into her hips with a coarse thrust that has her wondering if he’s listening at all. She continues regardless, “I thought _I_ could do that. I can work with my hands, fix ships, get _paid_ for my skills…for once…”

Ben hums in her ear and it sounds like approval, like understanding.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day, actually,” she whispers after a beat. “We’ll need more credits before too long and—” He hoists her other leg up, plowing forward with a bit less control, far from diffident now. “And if I get the job, maybe we could save what’s left over from the shuttle. I could buy a speeder to, ah…to commute with. Unless you think it’s a bad idea,” she prods, arms looped over his shoulders and fingers combing through his hair softly in a manner contrasting starkly to the way he’s driving into her.

“No, no,” he pants, “I think you should do it. It’s good planning.” His head falls into her neck again, their chests melding together as he gathers her against him, his pelvic bone grinding down on her clit erratically. “Responsible,” he manages to puff out.

“It’s like you said earlier,” she sniggers airily, “Like normal people do…”

She feels him smile into her skin, watches his shoulders bounce heavily as he chuckles with her. “First a date, then a job…” He shakes his head in mock disbelief. “What will we do next? Get married?”

Rey laughs, raking her nails over his back. “Maybe we will.”

His pace stutters. Then he stops altogether, lifting his head from the crook of her neck slowly. Sweat runs from his knitted brow. “What?” he demands quietly, panic blooming behind his gaze.

“What?” she fires back, nothing short of perturbed as to why he’s not _moving_.

He swallows, even the bob of his throat coming across as nervous. “Do you— Do you want that?”

“Do I want what?” she exclaims, her irritation sudden and roiling.

“To get married,” he answers, voice raising frantically on the edge of his words.

“I thought that was meant to be a joke!”

“It was!” His eyes dart between hers, something alarmed and desperate hiding within them. “It is…” he trails off.

She’s unsure as to why he’s so disturbed by his own comment, by the mere concept even. If they were on Jakku right now, they would already be considered joined or coupled or _married_ , if that’s what he wants to call it. There had been partners like them on her homeworld, few and far between as they were, but they’d always kept to themselves and they’d always profited enough together to make it off the sand ball in due time.

A vague image, a figment of an overactive imagination, flickers through her mind with the idea of she and Ben sharing the load she’d bore on Jakku for all those years. An image of them scavenging together, storing scrap supplies and working odd jobs at the outpost that paid in _real credits_. Saving enough to fly far, far away from the junk heap and going somewhere lush and green where strife has no dominion. _In a perfect galaxy…_

Pulling herself back to reality, she sighs, drawling out a low ‘okay’ and waiting for his consternation to simmer down.

“Okay?” he frazzles again.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, trying her best to find some humor in all this as she drones, “Just okay, Ben.”

He nods fervidly, far more than necessary, and takes a steadying breath. “Okay… Forget— Forget I said anything…”

Rey feels her expression pinch, knowing that even if she does put the thought aside like he’s asking her to, _he won’t_. “Of course,” she forces herself to whisper, pushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and smiling dully.

Somehow, by grand intervention or a miracle, after they inelegantly attempt to pick up where they left off, he manages to bring her into a second orgasm, small as it is. It’s satisfying, though, for all its delicateness and everything that nearly succeeded in preventing it’s coming. Sating enough to make her drowsy as she falls gently down from her high in his arms. And — in pretending to forget about the things he’d said, the guarded longing that danced fretfully over the draw of his face — she allows herself to doze off dreaming of clasped hands and honeyed music.

————

“Pardon me, Sir, but…” a meek voice calls out from the far end of the black, resin conference table, “are you certain that’s necessary?”

It takes a nigh insurmountable dose of willpower for Hux not to sneer.

_Mitaka_ …he grumbles to himself.

The Resistance’s suicide runner in the Crait System had downed nearly a dozen of their capital ships in the process of decimating the _Supremacy_ , leaving a rather hefty amount of higher-ranking positions open for occupation. Exposing the leadership of the First Order to the timid and inexperienced, like Mitaka… 

“Captain,” he starts, leveling the frail, newly promoted man with a spent glare, “considering our evidence has run out and our division searches have consistently returned empty-handed, the hire of bounty hunters seems, to me, the most efficient step forward in the search for Ren and the scavenger.”

Hux, though he would have preferred ‘the fugitives’ remained anonymous within the ranks of the First Order, knows one too many officers and troopers alike had seen the true face of Kylo Ren and he’d brushed the idea of their terminations off as quickly as it came. That would have been far too tedious a task and siphoned attention away from the larger issue at hand. So he’d hid nothing from his higher-ranking officials in regard to his reasoning for the pursuit of the ‘criminals’, and those who spoke out against him received the same treatment as that old grease rat from Naboo. On a much smaller scale, of course, he has no need for the galactic public to think him totally a tyrant.

“While I agree, Supreme Leader,” Major Shay breaks in, taking to his new position a bit too kindly, “bounty hunters require leads, as well, and we have none left to offer. The prospect of success seems questionable to me.”

“That,” Hux answers pointedly, “is why we’ll continue our search throughout the Core Systems, where our jurisdiction is unassailable. Once we’ve acquired the service of our bounty hunters, they’ll be sent to the Outer Rim and Unknown Regions. Any fees upon entry to safeguarded worlds will be compensated in addition to their initial commission payments.”

With that, he watches the room stiffen semi-collectively, per usual when the subject of credits is brought up in any capacity. He’s aware many would see the First Order’s funds be put to use elsewhere but, ultimately, that remains his decision.

“Does that satisfy your concerns, Major?” He spurs, catching the slightest quiver in the younger man’s dark brow.

“Of course, Supreme Leader.”

He hums curtly. _Keep a man informed and they’ll remain compliant…_

If he were Snoke, he never would have called a meeting in the first place. So he counts his methods, even if only meant to hollowly appease, a step in the direction of a more practical system of leadership.

His comm beeps an alert from where it’s pinned to his lapel.

He groans clippedly and removes the device, accepting the call with the stiff nonchalance that comes from knowing he won’t be barred from answering in his position, but loathing the interruption nonetheless.

“Yes?” Hux orders.

“Supreme Leader,” the voice of Lieutenant Garan crackles through his comm from the _Finalizer's_ bridge, urgency dripping from her tone. “A transport is demanding access to the docking bays.”

Hux can practically feel his blood pressure rise. “Is it a civilian vessel?” he grits out, all eyes locked onto him from down the lengthy conference table.

“No,” Garan replies promptly, then pauses with what Hux can only assume is nervousness. “Sir, I believe it’s the Knights of Ren.”

All breath leaves the room in less than a second flat, and Hux can’t decide whether to shudder or smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably noticed that I cut this fic's character list down to my five POV narrations. My reasoning is, like, entirely obvious considering they're my _five POV narrations_ , but also as this story grows more crowded I don't want to be continuously adding characters to my tags every couple of updates... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> As usual, I'm exceedingly grateful for any form of love you give this fic, thoughts and suggestions are always welcome, and I hope you enjoyed! <3


	15. I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leia and Hux enjoy a delicious feast of plot, while Ben and Rey get by on the crumbs I offer them...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a large gap between updates. I've been working on some other non-writing projects alongside this fic and am still figuring out how to best manage my time. I also want to apologize for writing another stupid _long_ chapter. I promise the plot is beginning to settle and this story will return to less abrasive word counts per chapter soon!
> 
> In other news! If you haven't already noticed, while the majority of this fic adheres to canonverse lore (even though it's canon divergent, whoops) I've sprinkled in a good amount of freeform and EU content in here as well. That fact will continue to remain prevalent and likely increase as the story unfolds. So if you read something and think it seems like a load of patchwork lore...IT PROBABLY IS!
> 
> That being said...on with the show!

The aged, grey X-wing that touches down on the cleared patch of cliffside serving as a shotty landing pad sparks no recognition in Leia’s eyes. She’s sure she must have seen it at some point in her younger years, when the New Republic was still fresh and her time spent with friends was more plentiful. But she’s more focused on the pilot within the starcraft now than anything else.

_Evaan Verlaine…_

_How long has it been?_ she wonders as the cockpit hatch hisses and begins to lift, revealing someone she’d made peace with never seeing again, a friend of the dearest sort.

And then Leia is allowed the briefest moment of youthfulness, of looking upon the past and feeling _glad_ for once. Recalling the thrill through the ranks of the Rebellion after the destruction of the first _Death Star_. The pride Evaan had reinstilled in her for the culture of their lost planet. The battles she’d won and lost beside her friend. Her friend who’d sworn the utmost loyalty to Alderaan and to herself. Who’d reintegrated their people into galactic society— the _voluntold_ Princess of Alderaan. Who’d fought battles in her name when Leia was too heartbroken or angry or _pregnant_ to do so…

She should have known Evaan would be the one to bring the Resistance’s salvation; she’s never let her down before.

And Evaan is just as radiant as Leia remembers her being, brimming with foolhardy confidence and pride, even if her hair is more silver now than gold, her skin taut and lined over high cheekbones. She does not look old. She looks experienced and _well-lived_.

Leia wishes briefly that she could say the same for herself, when, “And what is General Leia _Organa_ doing with _a cane_ in her hand?” Evaan’s smile — mischievous and haltingly youthful — crinkles her amber eyes as she lowers her boarding ladder and steps down from the X-wing. “Not getting into trouble I hope…”

A snort passes through Leia’s lips. It’s surprisingly cathartic to be allowed the privilege of laughing at one’s misfortunes, if not a tad morbid. “Had a grisly encounter with the vacuum of space, I’m afraid,” she supplies, pushing down the memory of sensing her son’s presence, of knowing somehow he hadn’t been the one to fire on her bridge. She huffs and recenters herself. _This is a_ happy _moment…_

“How very dramatic of you,” Evaan chuckles, stepping onto solid, green ground and wasting no time in pulling Leia in for a long-overdue hug. “I haven’t seen you since that fragger Casterfoe ruined your career…” she mutters into her shoulder.

Leia tuts. “He proved himself a friend after the dust settled…” she offers, the reminder of all those who used to call her an ally dampening the joy of seeing Evaan again after all this time. “You’re the first familiar face to make contact with us,” Leia pulls away to smile dimly up at her friend. “I’d begun convincing myself we’d be stuck here until the First Order sniffed us out. That no one was coming.”

“I received your transmission from the Crait System,” Evaan says somberly. “Everyone did… Several of the Starfleet pilots — myself included — were in the middle of preparations for departure when your signal cutout. We— We assumed the worst… That is until a couple of weeks ago when we caught your _coded_ signal again.”

“Starfleet pilots?” Leia prods, too transfixed by her friend's choice of words to care that her suspicions regarding the credibility of the _Falcon’s_ worse for wear comm system had proven correct. “ _New Republic_ Starfleet pilots?”

“Hanna City Spaceport,” Evaan confirms and Leia could _jump_ with glee.

“It’s still operating?”

Evaan nods. “The First Order had a blockade and patrols stationed in the Bormea sector until about two days after your first transmission went out. Rumor has it Chandrila was their next target after Hosnian Prime to tie up all their ends with the Republic. That is until your Rebels blew up their precious Sun Killer.” She smirks knowingly, proudly, then changes the subject, “Heard some ballsy Resistance pilot took out their Mega-class Dreadnaught and over half their fleet in the Crait System…” 

Leia bows her head, shifting her weight and sighing, “Amylin…”

“I’m sorry,” the tall blonde murmurs, resting a warm hand on her shoulder. “I know she was a good friend.”

With a nod, Leia points her cane in the general direction of where the rest of the Rebels are congregated, waiting anxiously about the hangar bay for her return. “She saved what’s left of us. There’d be no Resistance if it weren’t for her…”

Evaan’s eyes follow the path Leia had walked to reach the ‘landing pads’, a brief flash of remorse shining within them. “How many of you _are left_?” she asks low.

“A little under five dozen,” Leia murmurs, and Evaan scoffs self-deprecatingly. “A few joined from the Naboo System after the execution. I’m assuming you caught wind of that…”

“Unfortunately.” Evann scratches her neck, readjusting the collar of her orange flight suit. “How did you all manage to get here?” she asks, suddenly incredulous, eyeing their humid, green surroundings. “The Cademimu sector isn’t exactly an easy stroll from the Crait System…”

“Took a couple of detours through the unknown regions to avoid ‘commercial’ attention,” Leia supplies, motioning down the slightly overgrown path to the old bunker, prompting Evaan to follow. She’s sure of a few Rebels who will be interested in meeting the old war hero. “ _Falcon_ held up better than I expected.”

“That old junk heap?” her friend exclaims, disbelief and judgment edging her voice.

Leia chuckles. “I’m just as surprised as you, believe me. But we made it…”

They fall into a silence that isn’t wholly comfortable but still far from awkward. She has so many questions for her friend. How the Republic has been functioning these past seven years until…well, until _all this_ happened. How many other Resistance sympathizers exist that are prepared to join the ranks or if what Evaan brought is all there is. Whether her friend has another base in mind or if they will have to further fortify this one. _Too many_ questions… 

Eventually, once the bustle of Resistance members around the hangar overpowers the natural sounds of the moon’s jungle, Evaan mutters snidely, “Y’know, when I was organizing this pick-up mission after the First Order hightailed it to regroup after, well…after what Holdo did, old man Antilles came out the woodworks of retirement to try and lead this little expedition.”

“Oh, did he now?” Leia smiles fondly at the mention of the ace pilot. “And how did that pan out?”

“I sent him out with the other cells to the Abrion sector. Told him that when Luke Skywalker returns I’ll gladly hand over the reins, but that _this_ was personal…” She nudges Leia lightly in the shoulder.

But Leia can’t bring herself to laugh along with her friend, or wonder how many Rebel cells are actually assembled, or even what’s in the Abrion sector because guilt pours cold and heavy over the whole of her body. She grimaces. “About that… Luke has, uhm— Luke has returned.”

Evaan stops where she stands, bright eyes bulging. “ _What_?”

“We picked him up weeks ago, not long after the map he left was found and completed,” Leia mumbles, trying to tamp down the confusion and _hatred_ still shrouding her brother’s presence. “He’s been, uh— He’s here…with us…” 

Evaan’s jaw hangs a little, the expression lending unflatteringly to her age, reminding Leia of how _old_ everyone is becoming.

“I’m sorry,” Leia offers after a beat.

“ _Sorry_?” The vein in her friend’s forehead begins to bulge. “You— You’ve had him for _weeks_? Why am I— Why haven’t you told anyone?” she blanches.

Leia feels the blood drain from her face. Evaan is truly the only person Leia has ever known that can fully comprehend and handle her temper, but would she be able to understand the anger behind her silence?

Unlikely… 

Evaan is far more practical than herself, — which is saying something — she wouldn’t let resentment stop her from doing what needed to be done in the name of justice.

“I was waiting until we were more established,” Leia settles on, lying… _again_.

Perhaps Luke had been right. She _would_ have made for a fine Jedi…

“That’s no ex—” Evaan steps forward, fury rolling off of her before she presses a calming hand to her temple, recentering herself. “Well,” she huffs. “Once we get all of you resettled on Ukio you’ll have no reason not to put your brother to use.”

Evaan waves stiffly towards the still relatively far-off hangar bay as Leia quirks a brow. “Ukio?” She’s familiar with the trade world but last she heard it...well, it wouldn’t be necessarily _habitable_ for Resistance sympathizers. “Wasn’t it taken over by Imperial Loyalists ages ago?” she asks. “It should be under First Order jurisdiction now…” 

“Not actually,” Evaan counters, the draw of her mouth undeniably pleased. “A little over a year after your ‘retirement’ I led a task force to the Ukio System after a plea was received that their crops were floundering due to Imperial occupation.”

“Oh,” Leia mutters. “I hadn’t heard about that…”

“Of course you haven’t,” Evaan chuckles, “half the galaxy hasn’t because Ukians stopped Core World trading after what was left of the Empire took over their exports. They might as well not exist at this point, which makes their world the best place to lay low for people like you. Like _us_ …” She sweeps her hand towards the crumbling hangar bay not sixty meters away, towards the _Resistance_.

“And the Overliege is going to allow us to stay?” Leia prods incredulously, recalling the staunch monarchy from the early years of the New Republic, how the world’s senate representative — whose name she can’t remember for the life of her — had been anything but eager to participate in conversation not dealing with the agriculture of his planet. Her memories of him not lending much faith in his supposed willingness to accommodate the Resistance.

“Arrangements have already been made,” Evaan confirms, a twinkle in her eye that never seems to leave. “I called in a favor. It’s not like they can refuse anyway after what the Starfleet did for them,” she snorts.

Well… That all sounds good and fine but what about, “The First Order.” Leia grips her cane a tad tighter. “Are they unaware that the system has been free for so long?”

Evaan crosses her arms over her chest in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture, sighing, ”The Loyalists did a number on their crops; their distress call wasn’t a ruse. When we arrived a third of the planet was suffering starvation and several Imperial forces had already left. Locals said the Loyalists told them they were of little use if they couldn’t maintain food production. So…” She tucks her chin, raising her voice by a fraction. “Once the remaining Imperial’s were dealt with, a deal was made with the Overliege that trade with the Core Worlds would _not_ be reinstated. That way they could keep the resources needed to better rebuild their culture, and it’s been that way for almost six years now. _No one_ knows they have any crops left export.” That pleased look overtakes her features once again and she smiles. “Just like I said: They might as well not exist at this point…”

Leia has to admit the circumstances are almost too good not to take advantage of, but a twinge of guilt still taints her view of the situation. “But,” she lets out a breath with a shake of her head. “Is six years enough time? I don’t want to impose upon them if they’re not prepared to receive us.”

“You won’t be imposing,” her friend assures, “I called in a favor, remember? And besides that, they’re more than happy to lend their resources to the _Rebels_ set on overthrowing their oppressors.”

With a scoff, Leia’s gaze drifts to the old Rebellion bunker, tracking the bustle of Resistance members going about their business, preparing for the departure she’d promised them. She watches as Dameron oversees the deconstruction of the anti-sensor netting they’d only just installed, taking great care in keeping the old tech undamaged. She watches as pilots file into the _three_ crafts they currently have at their disposal, prepping engines and charging turrets. She watches as her brother — mildly frazzled and undoubtedly confused — speaks with a near-manic Finn beside the ramp of the _Falcon_.

_Finn…_ That young man never ceases to surprise her.

He must be Force-sensitive; there’s no other explanation for his premonition. But why hadn’t she sensed it before? Why hadn’t Luke?

Perhaps he’s like her. Repressed. A late bloomer. Yes, undoubtedly. Coming into his abilities when they are the most necessary, but not entirely _wanted_.

_Stars_ , he must be so confused. She knows _she_ had been.

Leia sighs. What a motley crew the lot of them make.

“What’s on your mind?” Evaan prods gently, edging a bit closer.

“Oh,” she exhales, shifting her thoughts back to the bigger picture. It would be unfair to weigh down her friend with the finer details of her distress. “It’s just…there’s so _few_ of us,” she settles on eventually. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to take down the First Order like the Ukians think we can.”

“Hey,” Evaan’s voice turns severe. “I’ve seen you succeed with far less than this.” She nods at the bunker. “But this isn’t everyone. Wedge is on his way to the Abrion sector as we speak with two more transports and about a dozen small fighter crafts. There are people who still believe in a free galaxy, in what you stand for. There are people who will _fight_ …”

“Then why has it taken them so long to show themselves?” Leia snaps, feeling that ‘righteous anger’ Luke accuses her of rising in her chest.

But Evaan only smirks as if she knows something Leia doesn’t, which she can’t say is a pleasant revelation. “Leia, you should know better than anyone,” she tuts, her grey-gold hair wafting with the warm breeze. “People are fickle… _scared_. They need a reason to hope and fight for change.” And then, her friend’s amber eyes level across the jungled distance into the old hangar bay, landing sternly and resolutely upon her twin. Upon the _last_ Jedi. “You have everything you need…” 

————

Hux stands rigid, flanked by two dozen or so stormtroopers as the bay doors of the _Finalizer’s_ starboard hangar begin to creak open. Roughly three-hundred more soldiers stand by from docking pads and the TIE terrace levels, all organized with high visibility of the Supreme Leader.

Major Edrison Peavey — formerly Captain — waits beside Hux, the only officer present at the debriefing with personal experience at the presence of the Knights of Ren.

Though the Supreme Leader knows well enough of the brutish enclave, he’d taken great care to avoid their barbaric ways anytime Ren had hosted them on board this very ship, making more work for himself than was necessary just to stay out of their ‘mystic’ radius.

But it’s now that he wishes he’d been more practical in studying them prior to this moment.

He has plans for them, of course, should something go awry. Though he’d hoped to have Ren and the scavenger — even if _her_ execution will serve merely as show — present at the eradication of the Knights. But plans can be adjusted as circumstances see fit.

Yet their coming to him is what proves worrisome.

He’s aware of the savage loyalty that exists between the Dark-siders. They could be harboring Ren unbeknownst to the galaxy, organizing a coup from outside the ranks of the Order, tempting the silent insubordinates Hux has yet to weed out to their side. The _Oubliette_ -class transport drifting into the hangar bay before him could be the beginning of his end, and all he’s managed to accomplish as Supreme Leader are a few worthless interrogations and offhand executions.

He needs more _time_ to ensure the capture of Ren.

He needs to make a deal, whatever the expense.

As the transport completes it’s landing process, it’s broad, black ramp hissing open, Major Peavey leans the barest inch into Hux’s space, all the while maintaining his rigidity. “Sir, should this interaction _not_ turn sour, might I suggest an investment in suppression collars. They may come in handy when dealing with Force-sensitives of the…rowdy sort…”

“Yes,” Hux shrugs stiffly in approval, taking mental note, “forward thinking, Major.”

Peavey nods and shifts his weight back, attention trained on the ‘intruding’ vessel once again.

And then, one by one, five black shrouded warriors descend into the sterile air of the hangar bay, bringing with them a bend of reality that speaks of the _supernatural_ , their crude, grisly weapons slung over shoulders and dangling menacingly from their leathers.

_Five…_ Hux realizes with an air of concern in remembering that there had once been more. _What happened to the sixth?_

The figure appearing to lead the band of Knights, his less-than-impressive height annulled by the broad-bladed scythe resting across his trapezii, observes the heavily guarded hangar bay with the ease and familiarity of a returning ruler.

Hux sneers.

“I’ll say, I’m astonished you let open the bay doors, _Supreme_ Leader,” the foremost Knight calls out, his helmeted head still pivoting about the room, no doubt taking stock of the weapons — both visible and not — trained on himself and the other enclave members. “I’d hoped we’d get a chance to shoot our way in.”

The metallic click of several hundred blaster safety’s switching off resounds throughout the high ceilings of the hangar.

The scythe-wielder chuckles low and throaty, his voice modulator emitting the sound in something just shy of a threatening fashion. “Now, now…” his free hand raises placatingly, “I admit, that wasn’t the proper greeting in the presence of _royalty_.” He pauses to take account of the other four Dark-siders behind him, his masked face turned to them when he speaks again, “We didn’t come here to make enemies, I’m afraid. Though this welcoming committee might be enough to sway us.”

The Knight’s ore encased head ticks to the side in anticipation and Hux resists the urge to snarl as he motions a hand for the troopers to lower their blasters.

An ounce of tension deflates from the extensive room.

“Ah,” the apparent leader lulls. “So you _do_ have use for us.” Then, to the Knight whose mask is vaguely — and crudely — reminiscent of a skull, “Your instincts were well placed.” The second brute scoffs darkly.

“I regret to inform you,” Hux calls out, pitching his voice lower, “that I am unaware as to what use I could possibly have for you.” He holds his breath, hoping they’ll take the bait.

They don’t.

“What happened to Ren?” the scythe-wielder calls back.

Or perhaps they do… 

“I would have assumed you knew,” Hux goads. “With your _instincts_ , of course.”

Peavey takes in a sharp breath through his nose and Hux curses the older man for his lack of faith.

He may not know much in regard to these Dark-siders, but he is certain their bloodlust rivals that of Snoke’s. And that means they can be _exploited_. All he needs is to know where their loyalties truly lie… 

“Word has it he’s a fugitive,” the leader starts. “We’d like to know why.”

Hux counts the Knights again. _Only five…_ And he’s beginning to suspect why.

“Where’s your sixth member?” he orders, taking great care to maintain an unsuspecting tone.

It’s when the skull-faced brute shifts his weight, dare he say, _uncomfortably_ , when the scythe-wielder cocks his head and the room suddenly becomes an unnatural cold, that Hux knows he’s bested them.

He plows forward, “Because I can’t quite figure why you should care what’s become of your former Master if you’ve already replaced him.”

The Knight hanging at the back of the group, his helmet sporting a variation of blinders on either side of his head, lets out a curt, metallic laugh.

“What happened to the sixth?” Hux asks again, growing tired of having to bait answers out of the Dark Knights.

The scythe-wielder, the leader, the _Master_ , shakes his head, kicking a metal-toed boot irritatedly — _amusedly_ — across the floor. “Some men don’t know when they’ve been beaten,” he offers, then motions to the remaining four Knights. “ _These_ men, however, were wiser…”

Hux ticks his chin in acknowledgment, debating how much he should reveal to the Dark-siders. He decides they need not know more than everyone else in this hangar bay. “Ren betrayed the First Order _and_ the late Supreme Leader by affiliating with a Resistance captive. He escaped with the prisoner, who we have every reason to believe is Force-sensitive, and they have not been seen in nearly five weeks since a holo-recording from the Eadu System was released to us.”

There’s an eerie quiet that settles while Hux waits for a response. The shift of metal and leather on the Knight’s uniforms echoing faintly throughout the room until, “Snoke?” the leader inquires.

“Killed by a Resistance suicide-runner,” he answers and that same _cold_ from before creeps through the air. Hux gets the sense the enclave isn’t eager to believe him and he has to give them credit for their discernment, not that they deserve the truth, though. All the same, he would still prefer to move this encounter along before they start asking more _incriminating_ questions. “So,” he clears his throat, “as I mentioned before, it would appear that I have no present use for you…”

The scythe-wielder tucks his chin in a gesture that reminds Hux nauseatingly of the way his father used to scold him. “But you do,” the Knight counters, serious and just this side of smug. “You haven’t seen Ren in weeks. That means you’re out of leads…”

The Dark-sider holding fast to a rather ghastly looking war club steps forward. “We can get you more,” he offers darkly and the accent of his voice is one Hux wouldn’t recognize even without the mask he’s wearing.

“And how do you propose to do that?” Hux scoffs, though not without a hint of intrigue at the enclave’s willingness to align with his own interests and pursuits.

“We have _instincts_ for this sort of thing,” the skull-faced one responds, mocking and not even attempting to hide it.

The Master steps closer, his movements both measured and casual as he speaks, “We'll find him for you. But we won’t do it for free like you expect the rest of the galaxy to.” Hux feels his lip curl and the Knight shakes his head. “This is _personal_ , after all, Supreme Leader. I think we deserve some compensation.”

If he were standing before a troop of bounty hunters Hux would have no qualms about _compensation_. But bounty hunters have reputations and can be hand-selected for the task at hand. The Knights of Ren’s only reputation is that of leaving fire and destruction in their wake. Yet he fears if he doesn’t accept this offer he’ll be adding ‘emergency ship repairs’ to his list of tasks distracting him from the apprehension of Ren.

“Very well,” he concedes. “What is your price?”

He watches the scythe-wielder’s shoulders slacken the slightest bit. “Snoke promised us a seat of power with the First Order through Ren… We’d like that arrangement to remain intact.”

Hux fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Done.”

Peavey shakes his head meagerly from out of the corner of his eye and Hux realizes errantly that perhaps the Major is right, he shouldn’t let them go that easily. “But only if you can assure me that your methods will see Ren captured and brought to justice,” he rushes, tacking on the condition of agreement with as much dignity as he can muster.

The Master chuckles once again, a more than unsettling sound. “Don’t worry, your _Highness_ ,” the Knight taunts, “if he’s using the Shadow, there’s nowhere in the galaxy he’ll be able to hide from us…” 

————

He doesn’t know why he said it. Doesn’t know why the thought had even crossed his mind, frivolous as it was, intended only to make Rey laugh that way she does when she finds him especially droll. Her nose scrunched and her eyes crinkled, shining.

But saying it aloud had solidified the idea in his brain and now there seems to be nothing he can do to _get it out_.

_What will we do next? Get married?_

He groans, scraping a palm over his face as, unbidden, his thoughts drift to his parents.

They’d loved one another. He’d be lying to say that wasn’t obvious to everyone including himself. But their marriage, in all its glaring tenderness, had also been visceral and demeaning. He’d stopped counting before the age of eight all the times they came home red-faced and shouting because the occurrences had started blurring together at one point or another. Or perhaps he’d stopped counting because all their arguments had begun revolving around _him_ …

He sighs. He’d be lying to _himself_ in thinking that hadn’t been exactly the reason.

That life, _marriage_ , isn’t something he’s cut out for, isn’t something he should be allowed to pursue. No matter how expertly he pretends to be anything other than _what he is_ , he’ll always be the reason for the turmoil in his parent’s relationship. So how could he then justify being married _himself_?

And Rey doesn’t deserve the trouble that seems to sprout everywhere his feet touch the ground. He’s known since the throne room that she couldn’t be tied down, that she _shouldn’t_.

What they have now is enough. He knows she’s staying because she wants to, — she’d made sure of that — but if one day he does prove too much for her patience there’ll be nothing barring her from leaving. No documents, no commitments, no _vows_.

And that’s for the better…he thinks. 

Rey shifts onto her stomach beside him, a gruff snore parting her lips and he chuckles, swiping a lock of hair from her forehead.

She’ll likely want him to wake her up before too long. It’s already well past mid-day and they’re still grounded on one of Raxulon’s many landing pads, and the longer it takes them to leave the larger the fee they’ll have to pay for staying.

Neither of them did much by the way of _clean up_ either, and he knows she’ll be upset if he lets her forget to take a shower.

Twisting over to lean against her side, Ben smooths a hand down the length of her back, his lips finding the shell of her ear as he whispers her name. She stirs a bit but ultimately returns to her snoring. He smiles.

“Rey,” he tries again, a skosh louder.

A jolt passes through her. “What?” she grumbles, shoving her ratted hair out of the way as she comes to.

Ben can’t help but snicker at her sleep-addled state. It’s become a point of anticipation for him every morning — or afternoon, for that matter — that he wakes before her and gets to observe the drowsiness fade from her body. “We should probably leave soon,” he murmurs. “We’re still at the port.”

“Oh,” she stretches her arms out above her head, curving her back in a way that is both alluring and without a doubt _unintentionally_ so, “that’s right. Yeah, probably.”

“I can pay while you get cleaned up,” he offers, eyes following the lean line of her body. He knows she’ll need longer to wash than he will anyway.

Rey turns over, bearing her front to him as she noses at his shoulder serenely. It really shouldn’t be allowed, how at ease she is in his presence. “Or we could get cleaned up together.” She raises her gaze to him imploringly, a raw sort of honesty holding her expression rather than the mischief he would have expected from a statement such as that. “If you want,” she tacks on.

But the tepid confidence on her face serves only to raise his anxieties. Is she still thinking about what he'd said, what he’d so childishly asked for her to forget? “Uh,” he tries, attempting to scrub the thought away, refocusing. “In the ‘fresher?” he finally blurts out, cursing his tongue for its inability to speak without wreaking havoc upon his pride.

“Well,” she hums, “I mean, maybe no sex. In the shower…that gets—”

“Messy,” he finishes for her with a laugh.

She snorts. “Yes.” Every attempt they’d made to follow through with that very idea — apart from the first when the sonics powered on — had ended with one of them either slipping disastrously on the slick, metal flooring, _or_ knocking some form of appendage against one another or the walls. Bruises followed indefinitely. “But we could _just_ take a shower, though,” Rey prods after a beat.

He kisses the crown of her tangled head, more than relieved to have misinterpreted her reservedness. “I’d like that.”

But it’s only once they’ve packed themselves into the less than size-accommodating shower unit that Ben begins to wonder whether this little ‘nothing’ could lead to just as many bruises as the times before. There’s not much room to move even with the water running.

“Maybe if you…” Rey scoots back against the transparisteel door, affording him the barest inches of space as copious amounts of water blear his vision. “Or if I…” she attempts to shimmy around him at the exact moment he reaches down for the soap, her face consequentially coming into abrupt contact with his armpit. “Mmph—”

“Oh!” He reels back, knocking his head on the water spout that was clearly not placed at a height with people of his stature in mind. “Sorry…” he mumbles, flipping wet hair from his eyes and tending the dull sting at the crown of his skull.

Rey giggles. Something she doesn’t let slip often but that he treasures all the more because of it. “Maybe you should sit down,” she suggests through her mirth.

“Why?”

She giggles again, a tad more exasperated now. “So I can wash your hair without tripping over your ridiculously long legs.”

_Oh._

“You don’t have to, we can just take tu—”

She snaps her fingers, pointing downward. “Sit.”

He eyes her incredulously, perhaps even defiantly, but folds his legs criss-cross underneath him, doing as she’s asked.

“Thank you,” she huffs, a haughty sigh escaping her lips. “Would you hand me the soap?”

He plucks the waxy bar from the shallow shelf that not only protrudes from the wall but makes for a great place to bruise one’s knee — he can speak from experience — and deposits it into her waiting palm.

He’s still concerned as to whether there’s enough room for her to perform even this menial task, what with legs taking up nearly half of the floor space, and his back pressing her calves into the wall. But all skepticism is expelled from his thoughts when her blunt, sturdy nails scrape feather-light across his scalp. A quavering breath leaves him and he feels his body slacken with each deliberate stroke of her fingers.

How is it that she can relax him so effortlessly? Even over illogical, minute worries such as the scant room of a refresher unit, she is able to calm him with tact and ease.

And the power she has over him should be frightening, should make him reevaluate the ever-present back and forth of their bond. But he knows the power she possesses is used wholly for his benefit, to soothe rather than subdue. She is not Snoke. She will not abuse it.

Rey retracts her hands for a moment, lathering soap into her palms, then begins kneading it across his scalp. He lets his shoulders slump further and his head fall gently against her thighs as his heart rate evens out. 

She works his hair for what he expects is longer than necessary, intent and silent until, “I can pay the landing fee. It’ll give me a chance to look into the application requirements for that repair garage before we leave.”

“Mhm,” he assents, far too lulled by the sure fingers tickling his scalp to offer a proper response. 

Another pause.

“And you’re not opposed to me trying for the job?” she asks eventually.

He can admit to himself that her decision may be cause for caution, or that he’ll miss her during the day if she does get hired. But he only shakes his head, spritzes of water trickling over his brow. “If it’s something you want, who am I to stop you?”

She stills at his words, not in a physical sense, — her hands still pulling softly at his hair — but a mental one. Her end of the bond thrumming softer than usual, overcome with realization or shock or gentle surprise. Though just as he’s about to call attention to her shift in mood he senses her thoughts reroute, and then, “Hey! That was the second sleep in a row I haven’t dreamt about you!”

“Oh?” he urges, turning his mindset to the direction hers is taking. “That’s good.”

“Have you dreamt of the desert again?”

“No,” he whispers relievedly. But it’s only been one night and he hadn’t dozed off this afternoon as she had. Logic tells him he doesn’t have enough grounds to claim the dream's recurrence has ceased. Yet a bright, hopeful voice that reminds him haltingly of Rey — though somehow belongs solely to him — offers that it's enough grounds to be optimistic. “I don’t remember dreaming at all last night, actually.”

She hums, echoing back a ‘that’s good’ as she tilts his head further into the faucet’s stream of water, rinsing away the suds.

He feels her sink down behind him, caging his hips between her thighs and his back against her chest. The available floor space only becoming more cramped with her lowered proximity, _sublimely_ cramped. She presses a kiss to his nape while lathering her hands once again and scrubbing them over his shoulder blades.

Her touch isn’t overtly sexual, though his stomach does tighten a bit with every brush of her palms, and he finds his eyes growing heavy with it.

This is new territory for him, — and for her, as well, he’d assume — something about the flow of the water and the faint, soapy scent of mint suffusing through the steamed air makes him want to curl up and savor the simplicity of the moment. And it only takes the slightest nudge into the bond to confirm that Rey feels the same, her cheek running along his shoulder as she smooths soap down his arms. She feels _glad_.

“This is nice,” her breath whisps past his ear, cool against the dampness of his skin. “Do you think ‘normal people’ do this, too?”

He grins, even if a bit wary of the subject. “I suppose,” he concedes. His grasp on _the mundane_ isn’t what he’d call particularly advanced having never been given the opportunity to experience it until, well, _now_. “Though I’m sorry to say it’s generally not considered ‘normal’ to share a dream space with someone,” he teases, regardless of the dream in question warranting quite the opposite of humor. _Or converse silently…_ he finishes. 

Rey tsks, letting her words flit across the bond, _“That’s too bad.”_ But her amusement rushes through him swifter than he’d expected it to, replaced suddenly by a regretful, all-consuming ache as her arms wind ardently around his middle. “I miss them a little,” she mumbles low, not shielding her embarrassment from him. “The dreams. I know it’s only been a day and they were far from pleasant, but…” She pauses, nosing at the hollow under his ear, making him shiver. “But I liked knowing more about you…”

A lifetime of manipulation would tell him, in this situation, with the flippantness of her phrase, that she’s aiming to glean information from him to use for her own gain.

But this is Rey. Honest, open, _good_ Rey. And he’s aware now — the doubt that had shadowed over his every thought extinguished by the accountability of her candor — that all she wants is to _know him_.

He can give her that. He can give her himself.

“Where did I leave off?” he asks, straightening a little in her embrace as he senses puzzlement wash over her.

“What?”

“I promised to tell you what happened after Luke’s temple burned.” He swallows. “Where did I leave off?”

Rey’s breath hitches across his neck, her body twisting around his shoulder so she can peer at him, wide-eyed. “You— You don’t have to tell me right now if you’re not ready. I don’t want to push you—”

“You’re not,” he assures. _You deserve to know…_

But ever attentive, ever perceiving, she asks, _”Do you want to show me, instead?”_

He nods and she scoots around him further until they’re face to face, foreheads pressed together. Water’s spraying directly into her eyes but she doesn’t seem to notice. “They’d followed you to the Jedi outpost where you contacted the Knights of Ren,” her lips ghost over the bridge of his nose, “those three students… That’s the last thing you told me.”

“Right,” he sighs, recalling how he’d elected to glaze over any and all mention of Snoke in their previous discussion. She hadn’t cared to hear about him and Ben certainly hadn’t cared to remind himself.

Taking a steadying breath, he calls the memory of Elphrona and what had followed forward, opening himself to Rey’s inspection. And when her consciousness melds with his — despite the rising worry at what she’ll think of him once she learns the rest of the truth — he feels his body curve around hers, craving the closeness.

She prods through the events of his life from nearly seven years ago that, with the discernment of somehow coming out on the other side relatively unscathed, he sees now were the first steps down a path he _could have_ refused to take.

He experiences her revelations to the truth mutedly as if he’s underwater, only able to process half of an image or the dying echo of a sound. Her shock and fret and…withdrawal? 

She had told him, after the dream they’d shared of the temple burning, that it hadn’t been his fault _or_ his choice. And perhaps she’d been right, but _this_ , what he had chosen to do after the fallout…the weight of what followed the temple’s burning rests entirely on his shoulders.

Hennix would still be alive if he hadn’t been so careless.

Tai would still be alive if he hadn’t hesitated in deciding the kind of man he wanted to be.

Voe would still be alive if he hadn’t lost himself to vengeance and hate _in the name of Tai_.

But… 

He himself would be dead today if he hadn’t murdered Ren, hadn’t submitted himself to the title of _Master_ of the Knights of Ren, submitted himself to Snoke.

It had only been a game of survival he’s told himself for almost a decade, a game that _he won_. Or so he thought…

Rey pulls away from the bond and his body, her face pale and bloodless in spite of the hot water raining over them. She looks sick and he feels it in his gut, the urge to dry heave or gasp for air. Yet they both remain silent. Still.

Minutes stretch by and he _can’t find his words_ , can’t puzzle out what the appropriate phrase would be, how to apologize to the dead.

But after longer than Ben can stand, Rey — ever-aware and perceiving of his distress — speaks up. A hushed, “I remember that”, parting her lips.

“What?” His head snaps up, the whisper of her voice dragging him out of his grief and replacing him under the confines of confusion.

Her eyes simmer in contrast to the greyness of her face, questions and realizations flickering within them, threatening to burn him through with their urgency. “How old were you?” she rushes. “How old were you when you—” A nervous swallow. “…when you killed the leader? The grey-haired man?”

_Ren…_

This is so separate from how he expected her to react that his mouth refuses to cooperate with his brain when he first attempts to respond. “Wha— Twen— Twenty-three.” He ticks his head, trying to regain his bearings. “I was twenty-three…” 

“Twenty-three, twenty-three…” she rambles under her breath, thoughts visibly churning. “ _Thirteen_ , I was— I remember that day!” Her volume rockets up and so do her hands, clutching on either side of his ears. “I remember that day!” But just as soon as her enthusiasm arrives it departs, leaving behind that detachedness he’d sensed from before. “Everything had felt so cold…”

It takes a moment before Ben realizes he’s shaking. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ …” and she sounds beyond frustrated, yet somehow he knows it’s not directed towards him. “I mean I know things about you before you even tell me about them! I remember the day you just showed me! I knew about the cavern where you found your kyber crystal before you told me! I used to have _dreams_ of you that I _forgot about_ until I found Luke’s lightsaber on Takodana!”

She pauses and he once again finds himself at a loss for words. She groans. “Don’t you think that’s strange?”

He really doesn’t know how to answer that. He’d been preparing himself for her anger or disgust at witnessing firsthand the atrocities he’d allowed himself to commit all those years ago. But… But she doesn’t even appear _concerned_. Her mind is…elsewhere, razing through thoughts and ideas he can’t keep up with. So he settles for a non-committal, “I think there are plenty of things about us that are strange.”

She groans again.

Perhaps she is frustrated with him after all.

For a moment she looks like she’s going to cry, — or possibly even scream — but she takes a breath in and out of her nose and says in an even tone, “Listen, there are obviously functions of our bond that we don’t understand, that we might _never_ understand. I’m not asking for those answers, though. I just want to know whether this…this _feeling_ , this sense I have about you is one-sided or not.” She gives him pause to respond, eyeing him expectantly, but he says nothing, still reeling from the turn of their conversation.

“Okay,” she huffs, “I just thought… What you said on _Starkiller_ … It’s okay… It’s just me, then…”

_Wait._

“Said what on _Starkiller_?” he asks hurriedly, an abrupt clarity settling over him.

“What I brought up last week,” she supplies. “When you said ‘It is you’…”

_Oh._

_OH!_

“Rey,” he starts softly, finally feeling he’s not stumbling in the dark any longer, wondering what in blazes she’s on about. “Rey, I— When I found you on Takodana…” He shakes his head, knowing full well his words don’t cover what occurred on that outlaw world, knowing full well they’re beyond skirting around the truth at this point. “When I _kidnapped_ you, looked into your mind…” he amends, checking her reaction, which is unfazed, _as usual_. “I got more of a read on you than I’d intended. In the forest, I mean.”

She nods, silently asking for more as her eyes begin to brighten once again.

He continues, “I saw bits of your past looking for the map, felt things you felt, and…” He clears his throat. “I understood what you went through, in a sense. The loneliness mostly. The waiting. That’s really why I— why I took you. For the map, of course, but also because…I’d hoped— I’d hoped that you might have been able to understand me, too.”

There’s a flare of irritation through the bond but she’s quick to tuck it away. He suspects they might share the same talent for ‘out of sight, out of mind’ when it comes to unwanted emotions. Even if she’s more skilled in the act of it than he has been in the past.

But he has a _point_ he’s working towards and he can’t clam up now, she deserves more than that. 

“I wanted to investigate further on _Starkiller_ , after I interrogated you. But you were…”

“Uncooperative?” she offers, the quirk of her brow both agitated and amused.

“Yes,” he says sheepishly, thinking rather that she had been _stronger than him_. “But even before I entered your mind I felt like we were… _connected_ ” He motions between their foreheads, letting his fingertips brush over the delicate line of her brow appreciatively. “Like _this_ was already formed and functioning.”

She draws in a short breath, quick and anticipative.

“Then you got inside _my_ head and I knew. I knew you were likely the only person in the galaxy that would ever be able to understand me. To _know_ me…” He finds his breaths coming in short bursts as well. “I think I decided then that I wanted you with me, in whatever capacity I could manage to attain. Having you train under me seemed the least conspicuous at the time with Snoke still looming. But then the bond opened fully and I knew that wouldn’t be enough for me. You were everything I’d hoped you would be. You _cared_. And you made _me_ care. Made me want you…just you, and…” He sighs. He’s rambling instead of assuring her.

Waving a hand in the air, as if to dismiss his own jumbled thoughts, he concludes, “I’m sorry, that was just a convoluted way of me telling you…I feel it, too.” Her eyebrows arch softly as the lovely pink bow of her lips parts. Then he adds, so to make certain his meaning isn’t misconstrued, “Like I’ve known you all of my life.”

Rey’s eyes are wet, and he could pass it off as just the shower water or the steam, but the bond is _vibrating_ between them, glowing, telling him otherwise.

“Thank you,” she mouths, no sound escaping her lungs.

He nods, a little numbly, feeling awkward because he truly hadn’t prepared himself for such a confession to her. No, not a confession. A _declaration_ …

Rather, he’d stilled himself for the ire he was certain the truth of his past would draw from her. But leave it to Rey to keep him on his toes, to keep him _honest_.

Even still, she seems uncharacteristically indifferent to the memories he’s shared with her, not prying for more, attempting to milk them for all their worth.

He’s about to ask if she wants to talk about what he’d shown her when her palm smooths over his wet hair, pushing it out of his eyes as she murmurs, “Your friend, the one who still believed in you. What was his name?”

Ben feels his throat tighten.

He’s not sure he’ll be able to say it. He’s not sure he deserves to.

But the want, the _need_ , to give Rey what she asks for helps him to get the name out, even if his voice cracks, “Tai…”

Rey hums, cupping his cheek, drawing his gaze to hers. She smiles weakly and whispers, “I share his sentiment.”

He holds back a growing sob. “What?”

“That you should be allowed to… _just be_.” Her bottom lip quivers almost imperceptibly — he knows he’s far worse for wear — and her fingers trail down his face, his neck, his shoulder, his arm until they finally clasp around his hand. “I’m sorry if I— I’m sorry I pressured you about the books and the Resistance last week. I promised to let them go when I left with you and I did a poor job of holding up my end of the deal.”

_Oh…_ He feels like a puddle upon the floor; he’s never been… _apologized to_ …like this before.

“I won’t ask about them anymore, or the texts,” she continues, unwittingly turning him to putty between her fingers with every word. “I’m not going to say I still wouldn’t like to learn more about our bond, but… But knowing you’re feeling the same things I do can be enough for me.” She stops and he wonders dazedly if it’s for emphasis. He’s right. “Knowing _you_ is enough for me…”

The whine that falls from his lips can’t be helped. His body might as well belong to someone else because he can’t seem to control it as he lunges for Rey across the diminutive ‘fresher space. Crushing her to his chest and burying his face into her neck, letting his tears roll down her back with the shower water.

She holds tightly to him, and perhaps she’s crying, too. But he can’t bring himself to pull away from her to check, the warmth of her embrace addictive in every sense of the word.

If he could stay with her like this until death overtook him, he would. Needing nothing but the buzz of her skin and the singing of their bond. Nothing but _her_. Only her. The only one.

_The only one…_

“Rey,” he murmurs into her skin, drawing courage from reserves within himself he had once thought empty. But can he tell her this? Can he stomach it? He’s already revealed so much today, but _this_? “Rey, I—”

“I know,” she says into his hair, a little wetly but no less firm.

He lifts his head, the urge to _see her_ overpowering all else. She is resolute, peering back at him. “You know?”

“Yes.”

Ben’s stomach flips. _She knows…she knows she knows she knows…_ “And do you—” He physically gulps. “Do you—”

“I do.”

More tears prick. “You do?” _Certainly not. She can’t possibly…_

“I do, Ben,” she repeats, her hazel eyes glistening. “Very much so…”

His heartbeat stutters, taking on a rhythm too large and too fast for his chest to contain. Too _warm_. He’s fit to burst. And maybe he does. Maybe that’s how Rey ends up pressed into the wall, his body caging her against it as he all but vibrates. His lips landing anywhere they can reach on her wet skin as she gasps and giggles and shrieks.

_Stars_ , he loves the sound of her laugh. Loves the way her nose scrunches and her eyes crinkle and her cheeks crease with those deep, inviting dimples.

He could kiss her all day.

“Rey,” he sighs, caring none of how desperate he sounds as his lips sear ever-more fervent trails over her skin. Leaving her goosebumped even in the heat of the cramped, steaming space.

He doesn’t notice just how tightly he’s shoved her to the wall until her tinkling little laughs turn into outright cackles.

With his chest pinning her back against the durasteel as he mouths down her sternum and abdomen. With his hands planted on either side of her rib cage, holding her up above him and shielding her none from the spouting water. With his feet slipping along the wet flooring in a half-crazed attempt to _keep her where she is_. He looks nothing short of ridiculous and he knows it.

But he can’t find it in himself to care.

And so he gives in to the almost childlike wonder swelling within him, allowing his kisses to become sloppy and his arms to nestle her soundly against him, fitting perfectly. All the while Rey _laughs_ , sounding just as, if not more overjoyed than himself. Her calloused fingers combing and pulling at his hair, his shoulders, his back in an attempt not to tumble and slip along the wet metal floor with him.

“Ben,” she yelps, “ _Ben_!”

He doesn’t stop, high on the sound of her mirth.

“Ben,” she squeals as he sucks a welt onto her collarbone. “I love you, but could we maybe turn the water off first?”

He collapses.

“What are you—” She crawls overtop him, her perfect head blocking the spray of water from burning his eyes as his chest heaves. 

_You really are going to be the death of me,_ he sends her, catching his breath and pondering the likelihood of suffering cardiac arrest before the age of thirty.

“Now that’s just melodramatic.” Her nose wrinkles in mock distaste.

Perhaps it is, but he swears he would be able to see his heart beating through his chest if he looked long enough.

Then, with a sigh, letting his head fall back against the durasteel wall, “I love you…” And maybe he doesn’t fully grasp what that means, maybe he’s never truly known it for himself. But it _feels_ like it did before, when his needs and expectations were low, when he assumed love was meant to be unconditional. Before he learned the _truth_ … 

“I know you do,” she whispers, her broad, beautiful voice quelling his doubts like it so often does.

He says it again, rolling the phrase around on his tongue, delighting in the taste.

“ _I know_ , Ben.” Affection and exasperation sail along her words.

He lifts his head, fixing her with the most earnest gaze he can afford. “I _love_ you.”

She kisses him, sweet and sharp and weighty and _true_. The bond growing so bright between them he fears his closed eyes will open to blindness. “I love you,” she hums against his lips and he is lost with it, grounded and floating all at once. Until, “But I’m afraid you’re going to dislocate something all jumbled up on the floor like this,” the inflection of her voice both concerned and amused.

He peers down at his legs, tucked awkwardly within the small metal space, twisting at an angle that perhaps they shouldn’t and threatening to push open the transparisteel door. The sight should make him laugh, grimace even if he were in a more sour mood, but, “I don’t care.” And he finds that he doesn’t because Rey — Rey who knows his past and chooses to see more than a monster — is gazing down at him with a softness he’s never known so intimately.

Why should he care about anything else?

Not the ‘fresher space cramping and locking his joints. Not the warm water pruning his skin and stinging his eyes. Not the prospect of her getting a job and the possible hazards it could bring. Not even the irrefutable evidence that he’ll never be cut out for marriage or domesticity or a _normal_ life.

None of it matters because _Rey loves him_ and that is more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very (not so) Serious Author's Note: I can confirm that our girl Rey does get a proper shower. She and her emo boyfriend just had to be mushy gushy lovebirds for a hot minute first.
> 
> You know the drill. I love you and I hope you enjoyed! <3
> 
> (Oh, I also added more tags)


	16. A Matter Of Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn wrestles with confusion. Rey makes a questionable decision. Hux is...Hux, as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. Another large gap between updates! I'm so sorry, though I'm afraid this might be the new normal for a little while as I wrestle with the daily grind of *shudders* reality... 
> 
> This is another long chapter, but not _quite_ as long and/or complicated as the previous two, so there's that...
> 
> Also!
> 
> CW:  
> Mention of possible emotional abuse from parents, but it's extremely vague and very, very brief.  
> Some almost-angst, but not quite.

Evaan Verlaine, as it turns out, is a war hero of some renown.

It had just taken about a half-hour of Poe gushing over her accolades for Finn to fully grasp that.

She had been the only Y-wing pilot to survive the Battle of Yavin. The Rebel who’d led the remaining Alderaanians to safety after their homeworld was destroyed. The woman who’d come to the aid of General Solo and Chewbacca during the liberation of Kashyyyk in 5 ABY, even piloted the _Falcon_ with General Organa to do so.

Needless to say… _hero_.

And to add luster to the legend, her plan of relocation for the Resistance has been, so far, airtight.

The transport she’d brought — an MC85 Star Cruiser — is not only equipped with heavy fortification, but had arrived with only half-passenger capacity, spare fuel canisters filling in the empty space, which were promptly put to use on the Landseer, YV-330 freighter, and the _Falcon_.

Hyperlane routes were already planned out and timed before anyone was even settled aboard the now _four_ — apart from the X-wings — ships at the Resistance’s disposal. The cruiser leads the way for the other vessels, piloted by Starfleet members with the trek from Ajan Kloss to the Abrion sector memorized like the back of their hands. Nabooian fugitives took back to the ships they’d arrived on and volunteered to hold middle position through hyperspace, while the _Falcon_ — significantly less crowded with several Resistance members now on board Verlaine’s transport — brings up the rear.

And Finn should be impressed with all of this, should be astounded by Verlaine’s Rebel history and her obvious inclination towards planning and tact. But — and he feels terrible for this, he really, _truly_ does — he doesn’t care.

It’s not that he’s ungrateful. He’d wanted to get off of Ajan Kloss as much as any other restless Resistance member. It’s just…

…he has no idea what to make of what happened _before_ Verlaine arrived…

The tingle down his spine. The sense of _knowing_ that had settled over him. The fact that his ‘hunch’ had been _right_.

He supposes what’s irked him the most _is_ his own rightness. That a _feeling_ he’d had on a whim, with no warning or evidence to solidify its authenticity, had proven truer than any educated assumption he could have made in regard to the situation that had been at hand.

And Luke certainly hadn’t been any help. Not that Finn had gotten to speak with him for long, anyway.

It seemed as if the moment he’d tracked down the old Jedi and managed to voice his questions and confusions in a relatively sensible manner, General Organa had descended upon the two of them and stolen her brother away for a highly unpunctual ‘briefing’. And then Skywalker was boarding Verlaine’s cruiser, Leia offering Finn a surprisingly genuine, if not short, apology and informing him that she’d assigned Poe with piloting the _Falcon_ for their departure. Which Finn took as the kindest way possible the General could have asked to _not_ be bothered while she spoke with Luke.

It’s not as though Finn wouldn’t have opted to travel with Poe on his own accord anyway— a days-long trek through hyperspace with Luke Skywalker as close company isn’t something he’d describe as particularly appealing, even if the older man could have given him useful answers. But even with the presence of his friends to soothe him, Finn’s apprehension about what had occurred within him — what could _continue_ to occur — is far from pacified.

And it would seem he’s doing a real piss-poor job of keeping it under wraps, too.

“All right, buddy,” Poe sighs, twisting in the _Falcon’s_ pilot seat to level Finn with a trepidatious gaze, “you’re starting to freak me out. You okay?”

With a great majority of her upper body tucked within the inner workings of the _Falcon’s_ control panel, Rose points the tip of her right boot at Poe and affirms, “Exactly,” her voice muffled by the overwhelmingly _ancient_ wire workings of Solo’s old ship. “What he said.”

Rose had boarded the freighter not long after Poe and Finn. Evidently the General had discovered a fault — as if there weren't enough in the first place — in the _Falcon’s_ comm systems and asked Rose to check it out. Though transmission wiring isn’t necessarily in her immediate field of expertise, she took to the task with purpose and is still diligently inspecting almost a full day cycle later.

“I know you didn’t really get a chance to speak with Luke like you wanted to but, Finn,” Poe continues, a gentle severity rising in his throat, “you haven’t said a word in, like…” He peers over at the chronometer to check but Rose beats him to it.

“Three hours,” she cuts in.

Poe shifts back to Finn, nodding gravely. “ _Three_ hours,” he echoes.

Finn dips his chin, willing his eyes to tear away from the mesmeric blur of hyperspace beyond the cockpit’s viewport. It’s so much easier not to dwell on concerns when faced with the vastness of space, the proof of one’s own insignificance.

But he supposes that’s just it, though. He would buy his own appeal of useless insignificance if it weren’t for…

“I guess I just don’t know what to think,” he offers after a moment, the tension in his friend’s shoulders falling instantly at his words.

“About…what happened before?” Poe questions further. “Before Verlaine arrived?”

“Yeah…”

Rose pops her head out from within the center console, her eyebrows arched and incredulous. “ _I_ know what to think of it,” she declares, a barely contained grin pulling on her lips. “You’ve got the _Force_! Like all those stories from before the Empire, like _Skywalker_ …”

Finn scoffs. He can’t say the idea hadn’t already crossed his mind, but… Why now? Shouldn’t he have experienced premonitions or _whatever they were_ a long time ago? Shouldn’t he have known _sooner_?

And besides, “Things like that don’t happen to people like me, Rose.”

Poe waves a dismissive hand through the air, snorting, “What do you mean ‘people like you’?”

“You know,” Finn prompts, “I don’t remember my real family, but I’m sure they weren’t anything special.” Rose’s mouth twists at his statement but he carries on, undeterred, “I mean, all I had going for me after I was placed in the stormtrooper program was a good aim. That’s the only reason Phasma never had me reconditioned or…terminated.” He swallows, the memory of his old Captain still fresh enough to turn his stomach.

“What does your family have to do with anything?” Rose queries, her mouth still tight and neck growing stiff.

“I just—” he starts, not really in the mood to explain his train of thought but not resistant enough to make up an excuse. “I just mean they likely weren’t heroes or whatever you want to call them. So it doesn’t make sense that I would be like Skywalker. That’s all.”

“ _Well_ , Skywalker is only a legend because of what he’s done with his life,” Rose starts, pausing as Poe tacks on a quiet, “Just like Verlaine,” to her comment before she continues, “and what his father did with his. But you never hear about any Skywalkers before Anakin, though, do you?”

Finn considers this while Poe nods, quietly comming Chewie from wherever the Wookie is within the ship, asking something about flux drives and regulators. “I guess not,” Finn concedes after a beat.

Contained relief pours over Rose and she offers him a scant smile before ducking back inside the clanky control panel. “I can’t think of anyone more suited to wield the Force than you, anyway,” her voice reverberates kindly through the cockpit, and Finn is filled with affection and disbelief most of all.

“Agree to disagree,” he murmurs, hoping beyond hope she won’t hear but, of course, she does.

“I’m being completely serious!” Her intensity ratchets up with her volume as she plows onward, “You disobeyed years of training and brainwashing at the hands of the First Order because you couldn’t bring yourself to kill for their pointless war! You still have faith that Rey is out there somewhere and _surviving_ because you believe in things bigger than what any of us can see, whether you want to admit that to yourself or not! I’ve never met anyone in this whole damned galaxy with a greater capacity for bravery and _instinct_ than you have, Finn!” She sounds out of breath after her tirade, though when she speaks again her tone is even and grave, “Don’t ever tell me you’re not capable of being a hero…”

A cold weight settles in Finn’s gut at her honesty, at her heightened opinion of him. He turns to Poe and finds him wide-eyed, looking nothing short of shell-shocked. But eventually, his friend whispers a low, “I mean…she’s right,” which only coaxes a frustrated groan out from Finn’s chest as he throws exasperated hands into the air.

“We don’t even know if I’m Force-sensitive, though!” he shouts, regretting the irritation of his words immediately but not enough to stop himself. “This is all just speculation!”

“So Luke really told you nothing?” Poe asks, still looking a little taken aback.

“Nah,” Finn sighs, tucking his chin in dejection. “Nothing worthwhile anyway… I explained to him what I felt, that I was confused, and he just mumbled something about wondering why he hadn’t sensed anything. Then Leia swooped in and— Yeah. He didn’t tell me anything.”

Poe whistles long and low, shaking his head in what Finn assumes is disbelief, or perhaps annoyance even.

“I’m telling you,” Poe grumbles, “The General’s brother better get to work on his social skills real quick or we’re gonna be dealing with a lot of ticked-off recruits…”

Rose sniggers from within the _Falcon’s_ console and Finn can’t help but chuckle a bit, too, at his friend’s snide observation.

Poe had been quick to share the General’s plans for her brother once the Resistance was settled and stable in the Abrion sector on some planet Finn vaguely remembers being called Ukio. And personally, Finn is beyond relieved Leia’s finally going to be putting the old Jedi to good use, what with all the trouble she’s made the Resistance — and, more importantly, the _Falcon_ — go through to retrieve him.

But Poe makes a fair point. How does Leia expect Luke to win anyone over to their side if he won’t even make an effort to endear himself to those already committed to this cause?

“He doesn’t seem to have any problem talking to you, though,” Rose points out, motioning to Poe with her knee. And Finn watches his friend’s face fall faintly, his nostrils flaring and mouth pinching.

“He knew my parents,” Poe offers, visibly making an effort to brighten his expression. “Probably feels like he’s talking to an old friend or something…”

Finn doesn’t know much about Poe’s family. He’d gotten a morsel of a story out of him a couple of weeks ago after asking about the ring always hanging around his neck. It’d belonged to his mother— her promise band, actually. She had been a hero, too. Just one Poe prefers not to talk about as often… 

“But hey,” Poe gestures indiscriminately after a recentering breath, affecting a charming yet somehow hollow grin. “Skywalker strikes me as the type that just needs a bit more pressure than others before he cracks.”

“Like the General?” Rose questions with a bellowing laugh.

Poe hums his agreement, smirking. “Exactly…”

Looking between Rose’s shifting legs poking out from the control console and Poe’s altogether alert yet laid-back posture, Finn finds himself smiling inwardly, thanking the Maker or whoever allowed him to come into existence that he has been permitted the comfort of such easy and genuine friends. He’d probably still be staring out the viewport if it weren’t for their innate — and sometimes frightening — ability to cheer him up, letting the blue-white swirl of hyperspace draw him into madness.

“Just keep pestering him,” Poe suggests, his gaze soft and understanding as he turns to Finn once more. “Skywalker can’t brush you off forever. And besides,” he smirks again, “he’s not as much of a curmudgeon as he pretends to be. I can assure you of that…”

“Okay,” Finn mumbles, not entirely sold on his friend’s confidence but more than willing to keep trying.

Poe ticks his chin up at Finn, assuredness and pride painting his features, “All right, nice.” Then, running a hand over his jaw, covered now by a beard nearly six weeks in the making, he sighs and changes the subject, “Sod it, first thing I’m doing once we touch down on Ukio is demanding a _usable_ razor and then shaving this blasted thing off…”

It had only taken a little over a week after Chewie transported the Resistance off Crait in the _Falcon_ for the majority of men on board to start looking for a razor, or a sharp edge at the very least. The only option they’d found was a rusted-out pair of scissors that looked to be older than the ship and would no doubt give anyone trying to trim with them a rough and unsanitary go at it.

They’ve remained avoided and unused since their discovery.

“Yeah,” Finn murmurs, scratching under his nose at a particularly itchy patch of hair, “me too.” He hasn’t been unshaven since…well, forever. _Twenty-three years old and never_ once _tried for a beard…_ he thinks to himself, suddenly perturbed that the First Order managed even to keep such a pointless right as facial hair from him.

Maybe he won’t shave, after all, regardless of whether the point he makes will be only for his own satisfaction.

“Phew!” Rose exhales, pulling herself out into the center aisle of the cockpit and grinning something fierce. “Tell me about it! I can’t wait to get this _pelt_ off my face!” she tries to choke out, cackling and patting mocking hands over her rosy and very clearly _not_ bearded cheeks.

“Sheeeeeesh…” Poe breathes, shaking his head disappointedly and trying his best to refrain from laughing.

Finn can’t do anything but smile.

————

Ben is so terribly, incandescently, _inexorably happy_ that Rey has no idea what to do with him. His smiles are so wide and so plentiful that simply looking at him makes her own cheeks hurt.

And if she _squints_ , his exuberant glow is almost certainly that of her vision from Ahch-To.

The worry in his brow and the frown lines on his face vanished by the sheer joy that practically seeps from his pores.

She’s wondered often why her vision of him from so long ago had affected her to such a deep degree, enough for her to turn away from everything she’s ever known or _could have_ known. But the connectedness of the moment they’d touched hands, — seeming a lifetime ago now — the assuredness that his happiness would be hers in turn, just as her belonging would be offered to him. It’s what’s hardened her resolve in helping Ben _become Ben_ again.

What opened a gate within her to _give_ rather than hoard away what little she has to offer.

It’s something symbiotic, what they have, as long as the bond remains open. And she’s never felt it as open as it is now. Never felt as accepted and _seen_ …

All because of three little words that sat less than a second upon her tongue.

_I love you…_

And she’d meant them. Oh, how she’d meant them… 

She’d like to think her actions had been evidence enough of the phrase’s truth before it was spoken. But verbalizing it, hearing _him_ verbalize it, was something she hadn’t been prepared for. The sincerity in his eyes as he’d looked right through her, right into her, and let those _three little words_ fall from his lips.

It’d taken her back to Jakku. Reverted her for a moment to a young girl longing for someone, _anyone_ to tell her that she was worthy of love. Just three. Little. Words. That’s all she’d wanted. Just once. Once and she never would have wished for a better life, never would have wished for _more_. Once and all her waiting would have been worth it.

And in retrospect, perhaps it truly was.

She doesn’t remember her parents. Not really. Only enough to know _Kylo’s_ words on the _Supremacy_ had been true. Enough to know that from the moment of her birth she’d been unwanted, — perhaps even the moment of her conception — a nuisance.

But Ben… 

Ben had wanted her the instant he saw her.

Not only had he told her this, _assured_ her of it, she’d seen it for herself the first time she entered his mind on _Starkiller_. She hadn’t wanted to believe it then, hadn’t been prepared for a feeling as raw and desperate as that, especially from the monster she had thought him to be.

But Ben had never been a monster, not completely. Just _lost_. Still more than capable of needing and longing and _loving_.

And it had only taken a nudge of compassion to see it, to realize he wasn’t too far gone, to realize he’d been waiting his whole life to be wanted just like her.

So perhaps that’s why seeking out work isn’t as appealing a challenge as it had been to Rey a few days ago, before those _three little words_ had been spoken. If she weren’t so damn practical, she’d gladly give up the opportunity for a stable credit flow just to spend her days kissing Ben’s brow, whispering words in his ear she wished she could have clung to through blistering Jakku days and long nights, words that dispel any notion on loneliness the instant they touch the air.

But if they don’t find a way to come into money soon they’ll end up having to adjust to a more ‘wildlife’ based existence.

It’s not that she thinks they wouldn’t be able to survive outside of relative civilization, she’s done it her whole life, after all. And that’s reason enough _not_ to return to such living conditions, for the sake of her sanity.

So it was with a begrudging sense of duty and pragmatism that Rey looked into the job at the repair garage, gathering the information necessary and following their ‘civilized’ application protocol.

She’d had to set up an _appointment_ for her ‘evidence of qualification’ examination, all in accordance to the shop’s standards; ‘Gorora’s Repairs’ she’d been informed upon closer inspection. It’s not something she’s too apprehensive for, the young Theelin woman who’d put her name ‘on the list’ had told her it’s only a supervised rebuilding of an M-68 landspeeder engine for the position she applied for, — a general mechanic, as she’d been told they were in short supply of — which Rey thankfully recognizes from the name as an older vehicle; built during a time period she has more experience with in regard to what used to come in and out of Niima outpost.

And she’s fine, _prepared_. She and Ben had landed their freighter close to the garage and she’d been calm, unfazed even when Ben kissed her forehead, saying he’d meet her back on the ship after she was finished, then headed into Raxulon’s downtown to kill some time.

But it’s the words, “Proof of identification?” coming from the clerk who’d helped her set up this very appointment that has Rey’s heart rate rocketing upwards.

“What?” she croaks. _I didn’t need anything like that last time…_

“I need to see a form of identification before you can go back for your examination,” the young woman informs her, though she seems quite confused as well, her brows arched and nervous.

Rey looks about the waiting area attached to the high-ceilinged garage by a transparisteel wall, the duracrete flooring seeming to rush up to meet her as the relatively spacious room grows smaller and smaller. “I— I gave you my name last time…” she tries, holding back an anxious breath as she recalls the name she’d made up on a whim all those weeks ago on Naboo when she’d sold Ben’s shuttle. “Kira, Kira Solana,” she reminds the clerk.

And perhaps it’s foolish of her to use the same name twice with the situation she and Ben are in, especially one which surname sounds so similar to his, — so similar to _Han’s_ — but something about the sound of it is comforting to her in a ‘take back your life’ sort of way. She’d conjured it up herself, after all.

“Yes, I remember, I remember,” the young woman rushes, her long, lavender fingers swiping away at a datapad frantically. “ _Kriff_!” she exclaims under her breath, then throws a hand over her mouth in shock. “I’m so sorry, ma’am! I didn’t— I was supposed to—” She exhales through her nose, steadying herself. “I was supposed to take your identicard before setting up an appointment for you, I’m so, so sorry, Miss Solana. It’s only my second week here and you were the first person to apply and— I’m sorry…”

Rey has to pause for a moment, absorbing the foreign feeling of being referred to as ‘ma’am’; by a girl who looks no older than herself, no less. It’s only after that the reality of the clerk's words begins to sink in.

She doesn’t have an identicard. She doesn’t even have a credit account.

“So… I can’t perform the exam, then?” Rey whispers, realization crashing over her like a fall head-first into dark waters.

“No, no, you can!” the young woman assures, “I’m sorry I confused you, I just need your proof of identification now.”

“I— I don’t have anything on me…”

It’s taking all of Rey’s concentration not to turn-tail right now. How long has she been waiting here? Are there cameras documenting her where she stands? Can they see her face?

A quick and admittedly sloppy scan of the room tells her it’s unlikely. Though she’s been wrong before. The remainder of this conversation needs to be careful for that very reason.

“Well, I mean,” the young woman’s head tilts to the side, silky, cobalt hair falling free from a haphazard bun tied at the crown of her skull. It’s hard to tell if she’s growing suspicious or just generally nervous. “Even a bank note would work if you want me to pull one up through a subspace transceiver. It’s really no trouble.”

Rey’s entering into the territory of specifics; ones a scavenger from Jakku like herself couldn’t begin to decipher without calling attention to the great lack of experience she has in the ways of an organized society. She’s never even heard of a bank note… 

_What am I doing?_ she wonders with a painful sense of clarity. _I can’t fool anybody here…_

“Ma’am?” the clerk prods, her brow pinched. “Miss Solana, are you okay?”

Or perhaps she can… 

“You’ve already seen my proof of identification,” Rey mutters low, attempting to keep her words below what any form of recorder could pick up, calmly willing her lie to ring true.

The young woman’s worried expression turns to one of unadulterated confusion. “What? No, I forgot to ask you for it last time, remember? But I can call up a bank no—”

“You’ve already seen my proof of identification.” Rey's voice is firmer, _deeper_. She can feel the Force swelling within her chest, tendrils of it worming softly, slowly into the clerk's mind, seeking entrance.

But she is resistant, though not with strain. “I— Uhm, I— I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

With a final, aggravated push, “You’ve _already seen_ my proof of identification,” Rey’s command finds its home inside the girl’s thoughts, wrapping around her memory and clouding it for however long Rey can manage to hold onto her control.

“I’ve already seen your proof of identification,” the young woman drones, eyes alert yet glassy.

“You’re going to let me perform my examination,” Rey continues, a strange and sickly sweet rush of a _thrill_ releasing like chemicals from her brain. But for all it’s glacé, the feeling is heavy and settles in her stomach like a stone. Though it doesn’t stop her from tying up all the loose ends she forgot to at the shipyard on Naboo. “And then you’re going to forget we had this conversation.”

The clerk nods dutifully. “Sure thing, ma’am. You can go right in,” she agrees woodenly, gesturing to a glass-paneled door joining the waiting room to the larger garage beside it.

The instant Rey releases her grasp on the girl’s mind, deep, harsh breaths rack through her lungs as the stone in her stomach seems to grow in size, forcing bile up her throat she has no choice but to swallow as she shuffles groggily through the indicated door.

“Thank you,” she manages to whisper.

————

“You’re pretty speedy,” the mechanic inspecting her observes; his name Dalo Omdal, the Zabrak employee she’d noticed through the window heading in Raxulon a couple of days ago.

Rey huffs, choking down another pulse of guilt as she reconnects the M-68’s drive relay to its repulsorlift stabilizer with a twist of a hydrospanner. “Guess I’m just jittery,” she offers, knowing full well that Dalo’s examining eyes isn’t what’s causing her to sweat.

She wonders if the young clerk — just half a garage away — has any inkling that a portion of her memory is missing, and can’t decide whether she should be relieved or disgusted that her attempt at the mind-wipe has proven successful. No one’s come to interrogate her yet.

“Well,” Dalo hums, dark emerald eyes shining and kind, “I sure can’t tell.”

The rest of her examination goes without so much of a hitch. An ionic power compensator from a T-44 had been placed within the parts given to her before she began the engine’s reconstruction, a trick question of sorts that stumped her for all of five seconds. After which her hands had worked deftly — if not a bit clammily — through the finishing adjustments.

But with less complicated work to distract her, her actions in the waiting room had come rushing back, forcing her to refocus her freeing attention onto something more droning and monotonous. The sounds of the garage, the crack of alignment analyzers, and the shock of fusioncutters bouncing off the duracrete flooring. Bikes, speeders, and shuttles making their way in and out of the long room through the bay door adjacent to the ever-looming waiting area.

The garage is really more of a hangar, nearly equal in size to the one in Theed’s shipyard, if not quite as tall. It’s a bit grimier, too. Not that grime is much of a deterrent for someone who’s spent the majority of their life working in a seedy outpost. And, by the time Dalo offers Rey a rag to wipe her hands with at the end of her exam, she finds the mechanical cacophony of the space isn’t so bothersome to her either. It carries an unintentional, clunky sort of rhythm that appeals to a more disorderly side of her. The girl who grew up with the sounds of the desert and it’s wreckage as her company.

But the oddly pleasant bout of nostalgia doesn’t last for long as Dalo guides her back towards the entrance of the repair shop. The closer her feet travel towards the waiting room the more like lead they become.

“You were the first person to apply for our general mechanic position, so we do have a few more applicants to work through before we can confirm anything hiring-wise,” Dalo informs her, his eyes trained on the datapad in his palm, though his tone of voice is far from distracted. “Do you have a comm code we can contact you with?”

Rey has to wrack her brain for a moment to recall the freighter’s code, — they’re so close to the young Theelin clerk now, Rey can make out the jeweled earpieces she wears through the transparisteel wall less than five meters away — but she recites the string of numbers casually, as if her thoughts aren’t terribly, _terribly_ muddled.

“All right! Well, that’s about it.” Dalo grins amicably at her, sliding open the glass door before them and motioning for her to follow him to the front desk. Rey swallows around a lump in her throat. “You were quick,” he compliments her, “and you didn’t get tripped up by that compensator… I thought you were going to for a second, but you fooled me.”

Rey chuckles emptily. They’re in front of the clerk now.

Strange thing is, she doesn’t look any different: same moderately anxious gaze balanced by an altogether friendly demeanor. It’s _Rey_ that feels different. _Vile_. Had it been this devastating the last time she imposed her will on someone? Or the time before?

“All wrapped up?” the young woman asks, bright-eyed and unbothered as she looks between the two of them.

“Yup,” Dalo confirms, handing his datapad over to the girl and smiling so genuinely at Rey she only feels worse for it. “We’ll get back to you in about a week or so,” he says by way of a farewell, then makes his way back into the garage, leaving Rey with the suffocating weight of her impulsive decision. Not that anyone but her knows — or _remembers_ — what she did.

A full ten seconds go by with only the sound of the clerk’s fingers tapping and swiping across the screen in her hands to cut the stifling silence. But eventually, she looks up, an unwitting and easy smile parting her lips. “Have a nice day, Miss Solana.”

————

The walk back to the freighter takes all of five minutes, but to Rey, hours may as well go by.

She doesn’t want to think about that poor girl anymore, — and can’t even begin to fathom what she'll do if she actually gets the job — but her thoughts travel where they will, calling up the memory of the salesman on Naboo. He hadn’t been so difficult to influence, his mind was soft and alarmingly penetrable. Even the stormtrooper she’d ordered to set her free on _Starkiller Base_ hadn’t been so great a chore as this clerk, and Rey hadn’t even known what she was doing all those weeks ago at the hands of the First Order— not to say she’s learned any more now; it’s all based on _will_ she’s found.

She should have stopped when she felt the first natural surge of resistance from the young woman. Should have been prepared to overrule her own instinct to hold her ground when faced with a struggle. Battling her way into a mind isn’t even remotely similar to battling her way out of a scuffle, a fight, a _duel_. Her need to prove her strength was unwarranted. She should have just walked away when the girl asked her for an identicard, she _could_ have.

But, no. _Why_ would she do that? Why call it in when she had nothing to lose except a bit of pride through an awkward interaction when she could just create an even larger mess for herself? One she’ll likely never face real consequences for, — because she covered her tracks well, didn’t she? — but have to live with the knowledge and guilt of her own boorish impulsivity.

_Stars_ , she could scream.

She acted like nothing more than a skittermouse in there, twitchy and suspicious, jumping on the opportunity for escape no matter the mode.

But what she hates the most is how _good_ the act of forcing her own will into fruition had felt, if only for the briefest of moments. How easily her desire for dominance in a situation of _entirely unnecessary_ adversity overwhelmed her judgement and egged her to push for _more_.

Looking up the ramp of the freighter she _stole_ , Rey begins to wonder if she’s as just of a person as she once believed. The young woman at the repair shop hadn’t deserved to have her memory tampered with. The ship salesman on Naboo hadn’t deserved to be swindled. And with everything she knows of First Order stormtroopers, the one assigned to guard her cell on _Starkiller_ had nothing by way of choice when it came to doing his job, he hadn’t deserved what she’d done to him, even if it was a matter of survival.

Even if _all of it_ has been a matter of survival.

And what will Ben think of her once she tells him what she’s done? He’d been more than appalled by her actions at Theed’s shipyard, but those seem insignificant now compared to what happened in the garage today.

Taking a long, low breath, — something she should have done about two hours ago in that wretched waiting room — Rey places a hesitant foot on the steel ramp and begins trudging her way up towards her, no doubt, impending judgment.

But she only makes it halfway aboard the ship before she hears it, all of her agonizing momentarily suspended at the soft, ringing sound of _music_.

“What?” she mutters, feet flying up the ramp without deliberation, slaves to her curiosity.

Rey barrels into the loungeport in a flurry, ears leading the way as the song’s volume grows, and with it Ben’s Force signature, rich and content and _alight_ near the ship’s repair bay. It’s there she finds him seated cross-legged on the floor, an honest to goodness pen in his hand and _real_ paper splayed out in front of him.

“Hullo,” he greets her, looking up from _whatever he’s working on_ and grinning at her so brightly it’s a wonder she doesn’t crumble to the floor on the spot.

“What are you doing?” she questions breathily, beyond astounded by the easy picture he paints all relaxed amongst his papers. “And where is that coming from?” she continues, gesturing noncommittally through the air as if to pinpoint the source of the music.

Ben chuckles. “Behind you,” he says, pointing up and around her head.

She turns, eyes tracking the line of his finger, and there, upon the topmost shelf of the engineering station, sits the object of her curiosity. It’s a silver sphere, no larger than the palm of her band, resting semi-snugly inside a shallow, black-rimmed dish. Thin mechanical arms extend out from the plate’s four corners, bending in towards the sphere with what appears to be small, rubber hands on their ends, arched and waiting for…what?

“What is it?” she asks as the tinkling song resounding through the loungeport comes to an end and the device’s arms attach gently to the sphere, jostling ever-so-slightly and causing a new tune to begin playing. Rey is quietly mesmerized.

“It’s a music ball,” Ben tells her, fondness evident in his voice, “Leia used to have one when I was a kid.”

Rey whips around to inspect his expression, but all she’s greeted with is the ever-growing relaxedness that seems to surround him now. It’s a comforting sight.

“Used to be,” he carries on, “you’d have to shake it anytime you wanted a new song to play— if it had the capacity for more than one, that is. But someone in the last decade or two must have decided they were tired of that and came up with that little automatic shaker underneath it.” Rey stands on her tiptoes to get a closer look at the machinery, it must have some sort of vibration sensor for it to recognize when a song has finished. “Pretty brilliant, really,” Ben comments genially, though she can tell he’s stifling laughter at her unmitigated struggle to see the device from how high up he’s placed it.

“It’s amazing!” she agrees, her only knowledge of music resources up until now being the shotty holonet stations Unkar would play in the outpost on the off-chance he was in a good mood, which might as well have been never. “Where did you find it?”

“A little music store on the same floor we found your jacket,” he answers. “They had some with a bit more song capacity, but I didn’t want to be too overwhelmed. This one only plays fifteen, _none_ of which I recognize. But that’s my own fault, I suppose.”

Rey hums her acknowledgment, not really wanting to linger on the topic of Ben’s ‘lost years’. “Aaaand,” she drawls, returning her attention to the paper sprawled about his seated form and nodding downward, “where did you get those?”

Ben dips his chin a little sheepishly, murmuring “A tea shop was selling stationary, the traditional kind, — probably so they looked _cultured_ — and I was intrigued…”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Re-pursuing an old hobby? They didn’t have any proper calligraphy pens though, but this is all right,” he concedes, twirling his thin writing utensil between two fingers.

“Calligraphy?” she prods, not even attempting to hide the surprise from her voice.

Ben’s ears turn red. “It’s, uh— I’ve done it since I was a kid. Leia got me my first writing set. It was a nice distraction from…” He stops himself short.

But he doesn’t need to finish his sentence for Rey to catch on to what _exactly_ he’d wanted to be distracted from. So she veers the conversation away from his childhood as best she can, “I think it’s neat, really. Not many people write physically anymore.”

A timid smile reappears on his face. “No, I guess they don’t.”

“I found an old journal on a Star Destroyer once,” she starts. “A paper one, probably some sort of backup Captain’s Log.” Something any other scrapper would have left for the elements. “I’d draw in it if I got bored or had a storm to wait out.”

Ben looks delighted by her little anecdote, and she wonders just how much more intense her enthusiasm for his tales comes across when he tells them. “What would you draw?”

“Oh,” she sighs, trying to recall, “parts I wanted, flowers I’d find, myself sometimes…”

He simpers, rumbling, “I was never any good at drawing.”

“Well, I can barely write half a sentence, so I think we might be even,” she supplies, winking showily at him.

It doesn’t have much of an effect, though, as he shakes his head at her statement. “If you can draw, you can write a sentence.”

Rey shakes her own head back. “Hand movement is much more restricted when writing letters. I’ve tried, but it’s not the same. At least for me.”

Ben hums thoughtfully, and just as Rey’s about to ask him if he’s put his new stack of papers to use yet, he levels her with a question of his own, “How’d your exam go?”

And just like that, her little moment of blissful distraction, of tucking thoughts she’s loath to face away into a far corner of her mind, comes crashing down around her. Ben must take notice of her sudden distress because the space between his brows creases with concern.

“I take it that means it went poorly?” he prods low, testing his theory.

She has roughly five seconds to respond before his concern morphs into something of more protectiveness and weight; she knows this because her reaction would be of the same caliber if she were in his place now.

And it shouldn’t be a debate. She has to tell him what happened, it’s only fair with the promise of honesty they’ve made to one another. But he’d been so _happy_ to see her when she came back, and she doesn’t want that warm blanket of a feeling to go away just yet, even if she knows prolonging telling him will only make it more difficult to do so.

Tomorrow. She’ll tell him tomorrow. She’s allowed to have one afternoon of ease before coming clean, isn’t she?

“Not entirely,” she mumbles, clearing her throat as softly as she can manage. “I almost started installing a power compensator that didn’t belong in the M-68 I was working on. But I figured it out before I did anything stupid.”

“Why’d you have a part that wouldn’t have worked for the engine you were rebuilding?” he asks.

“They set out all the tools and parts I’d be using before the examination began,” she explains. “They put the compensator in there to see if I knew my stuff, I assume. M-68’s don’t actually need them unless their coolant tubes are faulty.”

Ben scoffs, “That seems a little dishonest, doesn’t it?” and Rey nearly blanches. He continues, seeming not to notice, “But I don’t think that’s too big of a hitch. Did anything else go wrong?”

_Yes…_ she thinks, careful to keep that thought to herself as she shakes her head.

“That wasn’t a very convincing ‘no’,” he teases.

“Sorry, no,” she rushes, feeling her cheeks heat with barely contained nerves. “No, everything else went fine, they’re gonna comm in a little over a week to tell me if I got the position or not.”

Ben nods absentmindedly, acknowledging her words while studying her face. Not prying into her thoughts, just staring, watching. For some reason, it makes her all the more uncomfortable than she thinks having her thoughts read would have.

Eventually, he tilts his head ponderously, his voice gentle as he observes carefully, “You feel very stressed…”

And Rey’s shoulders sag instantly, hoping the motion will relieve the tension within her thoughts but doing little for it. She should tell him. She _needs_ to. But there’s a divide between her brain’s intent and her tongue’s willingness. Try as she might, the truth just doesn’t want to be spit from her mouth.

“I _am_ ,” she sighs, plopping herself down in front of him and offering a sliver of honesty for her conscience’s sake, “I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was. I’m not— I’m not used to all of the _protocol_ that goes into real work.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have to work, then, if it’s _this_ taxing for you…”

“No, no,” she dismisses his suggestion with a wave. “We’re going to need credits before long. I— I can get used to it.” And she knows that’s exactly what she’ll have to do, what she’s always _had to do_ , every day of her life. Perhaps comfort is meant to remain a stranger to her, after all.

But she has Ben, and he is more than comfort for her.

He studies her for a while longer, the concern in his eyes giving way to a brightness she’s come to recognize over the past few weeks as an idea forming. And, in an impossibly swift movement, Ben wipes his hands across the tops of his thighs and rises to his feet, extending an open palm down to her. She takes it, admiring his attempt at confidence that doesn’t quite sell with the overwhelming amount of anxiousness rushing through the bond between them.

“Dance with me?” he asks, endearingly unsure as he does so.

She’s not entirely surprised by the request with all their talk of music lately, but she _is_ horrified by her memory’s sudden need to remind her of the brief dance she’d shared with Luke on Ahch-To at the Lanai’s celebration. It’s not the fondest of recollections and she feels strangely and unnecessarily awkward even thinking of it in Ben’s presence.

She wills the thought away as she accepts his offer, stepping closer into his space and smiling softly up at him. “Is this _dancing_ , dancing or just the swaying kind?”

He sniggers, wrapping broad arms around her waist as she locks her hands behind his neck. “For the sake of my pride and your toes, just the swaying kind for today…”

“Fine by me,” Rey murmurs, placing her ear to his heart and letting her body ease into the rhythm of the music around them, doing her best to keep the memory of the repair garage and what transpired there from tainting this moment. The soft, brassy instruments and their mechanical beat serve as a fine distraction for the time being until she realizes she hasn’t heard any lyrics since first stepping on board the freighter. “What song is this?” she asks into his shirtfront, feeling a chuckle rise within his chest.

“No clue.”

She laughs, squeezing him tighter, then sombers as an errant thought occurs to her, “Is this how Leia would dance with you?”

Ben stiffens against her, his leisurely footfalls becoming a bit less graceful as he answers her, “Not quite, but almost…”

Rey absorbs his words, letting the idea of a small, shaggy-haired boy twirling in his mother’s embrace permeate through her mind. For all it’s tenderness, she can’t help feeling sad. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I shouldn’t have reminded you, at least…not right _now_.”

“No, no, it’s…” He pauses, resting his cheek atop her head and consciously loosening his body around hers. “You always remind me of them just a little bit. My parents…”

“Oh, I— I don’t mean to… I— I’m sorry,” she stumbles on her words, trying to take account of what she could have said or done to make him feel that way.

But she feels his grin spread against her temple as he presses a whisper of a kiss there. “It’s all right,” he assures her, not a trace of discomfort in his tone. “You remind me of the good things, that there _were_ good things. I’m not always the best at doing that for myself…”

_Oh…_ “Glad I could be of service,” she quips back as tears begin to prick in her yes. That earns her a second kiss to the temple.

After another song or two goes by, and Rey’s body feels simultaneously numb and _alive_ from their ‘swaying’, Ben whispers, “Is this relaxing?” almost apprehensively in her ear.

She shrugs in his arms. “Do I feel relaxed to you?”

He’s silent for a beat, checking, then, “More so than earlier…”

“Then I’d say it’s relaxing,” she responds, punctuating the statement with a kiss to his sternum and a soft ‘thank you’.

More songs go by, lulling her into a state of cognitive tiredness. It’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen asleep where she stands, Ben’s question after who knows how long pulling her back into just enough wakefulness to keep her feet moving, “Have I told you yet today?”

“When we woke up this morning,” she answers without a second of delay despite her drowsiness.

“Can I tell you again?”

Rey hides her smile in the fabric of his shirt. “You can tell me however much you please.”

Ben sighs into her hair.

“I love you.”

————

That night, once sleep finally falls over her, Rey dreams of buildings so tall they seem to touch the black of space. Of broad, winding streets and dark, narrow alleyways. Of people and droids and ships and speeders crowding the air and polluting her ears with rushing, cacophonous sound.

An endless city she can’t find her way out of.

————

Long after the glow panels within the _Finalizer’s_ hallways and corridors have dimmed, simulating the end of a standard day cycle, the light of Supreme Leader Hux’s office spills cold and bright into the dark of his quarters.

In the stark blue glow of the holo on his desk, Hux brings a bitter cup of caf to his lips, fighting the urge to just ‘rest his eyes’. He’s spent the better part of his day holed up in this very room, researching, rearranging budgets, weighing his options.

But it’s necessary work. What kind of leader would he be if he didn’t follow through, if he didn’t pursue every opportunity offered to him?

And then, with a highly unceremonious press of his finger, incentive commissions of handsome proportions are transferred into the accounts of five bounty hunters: Dhidal Nyz, Primco Farg, Emim’Ai, Morga Bunna, and Mirta Gev. Some with longstanding reputations for success and others desperate enough for pay they might just do the job right.

Because after all…

What the Knights of Ren don’t know won’t hurt them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing interesting to say other than I love you and hope that you enjoyed! <333


	17. A Loved One's Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey comes clean to Ben (for the most part). Hux gets 'news'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I updated sooner than I expected! :)

It’s rude to eavesdrop. Ben knows this.

That being said, it’s rather hard _not_ to when the individual he’s listening in on didn’t elect to close the cockpit door behind her. And is, on top of that, speaking quite plainly about a certain job at a certain repair shop.

Though, if Rey hadn’t wanted him to hear he supposes she _would have_ shut the door. So he doesn’t feel too terribly guilty about his prying ears.

Even so, he can’t really hear that much from where he’s planted himself in the port side of the loungeport. Where he’d been guiding the pen in Rey’s hand, helping her to make more confident lines and strokes across his paper than the unsteady grip she’d adopted when showing him the words she knew how to write.

She hadn’t asked for a lesson, simply plucked the pen from his stalling fingertips and set off making her own marks. Nor had she been deterred by his assistance as her letters began to take shape on the scrap parchment.

_**rey**_

_**rae**_ , with a scribbled out ‘a’, then, _**ræh**_

A pause as he’d cupped her wrist, steadying her hand while her brow pinched in thought, deliberation.

Then, _**kira**_

Another pause.

_**kira solana**_

He’d been about to ask who or what that was when the cockpit’s comm had buzzed to life, causing Rey’s face to flush and whiten all at once, her eyes bugging larger with the apprehension he can still feel through the bond ten minutes into whatever conversation she’s been having. They’d commed her earlier than expected. It’s only been four days since her examination.

He’s caught nothing more than hushed phrases and muffled words so far. Something about available hours and clothing sizes, that name Kira again alongside payment options, the latter of which Rey brought up with another overwhelming swell of nerves.

It’s not hard to piece together, with what little he can hear, that she’s gotten the position she applied for. And he’s beyond happy for her, ecstatic even. Which is why the apparent and nonsensical discomfort flowing between their minds seems so out of place in what should be a moment of relief.

He’s aware she’d been nervous about working but had assumed it was from the ‘lack of experience’ she’d claimed to have had after coming back from her examination. Not that he’d believed her self-doubts then, but it’s not his place to tell her what she should or shouldn’t allow herself to be stressed over.

Yet her apprehension is clearly misguided by the few details he can pluck from the conversation playing out on the other side of the ship. She should be proud of herself.

So why isn’t she?

Another five or so minutes go by, enough time for Ben to organize himself and pretend he hadn’t succumbed to his curiosity on the matter of her comm call. He restacks some loose paper that he’d shuffled about when Rey sat beside him and made to snatch his pen away, not wanting her to catch a glimpse of his utterly abhorrent penmanship after going so many years without practicing.

He keeps those pages at the bottom of his pile as her footsteps sound her return from the cockpit.

But she never makes her way back into the loungeport. In fact, he watches her pause at the entryway, — her eyes lacking their usual alacrity when they meet his — then continue down the corridor with ladden steps.

He scurries to his feet, tucking his parchment and writing utensils away onto a random shelf of the engineering station — which has been used for anything _but_ ship repairs — and following fast after her.

He heads towards the crew quarters they’ve silently designated as _their own_ but stops short when he senses her Force signature aglow and flickering from the port engine room, of all places.

She’s crying.

And he doubts he’d need their mental link to riddle that out. There’s just something about distress, about _melancholy_ , he’s found — now that he’s allowed himself to feel once more — that resonates deeper than any other emotion. It causes the air to thicken and time to slow, if only for a moment. It’s a bridge between all sentient beings, regardless of the Force. A shared experience among all life. And it’s no different now.

That stilted sound of someone’s stuffy nose. Their hiccupped breaths. The immediate hint of nasal pressure that comes from listening to that someone cry and knowing the exact sort of headache they’ll have once they’re through.

The urge to comfort them that’s more natural now, as he barrels down the hall towards the sound of Rey’s muffled sobbing, than he ever expected it to be.

What a strange thing sympathy is, _empathy_ too. And love… 

“Rey,” he murmurs, idling in the engine room’s threshold, not wanting his presence to frighten her, although it’s unlikely she hadn’t already sensed his approach. “How did— What did they say?” he prods, pretending, no doubt fruitlessly, that he hadn’t been listening in on the gist of what should be excellent news.

She’s curled herself into the narrow space between the sublight thrusters and the wall, her back hunched and quaking, bared to the door. He places one timid foot in front of the other but she doesn’t shy away from his nearing, almost as if she couldn’t care whether he was there or not.

“Rey?” he tries again, crouching down behind her and hovering a hand over her spine, careful not to touch just yet.

She coughs, burying her face into her kneecaps and muttering thickly, “I got the job.”

“Well…that’s…what you wanted, right?” he asks, trying to think up a reason as to why her success would be upsetting, but coming up with nothing.

Rey nods, refusing to look at him.

“Then why—” He stops himself short as she squares her shoulders, rolling her neck and _still_ refusing to look at him.

“I— I need to be alone for a minute,” she offers stiltedly, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I won’t be long, just— Just give me a minute, please…”

Ben hesitates, not sure whether he should take her word and leave, or remain, ready and waiting to be the comfort he knows he would want. But Rey’s not one to spew phrases she doesn’t mean, at least in his experience— that’s _his_ job.

So he stands, backing away with ginger steps and replying, “I’ll be, uh— I’ll be in the loungeport if you…”

He turns back into the corridor as her wet voice trails after him with a low ‘thank you’, but he doesn’t return to his paper and pens at the engineering station. Instead, he strips all the sheets in their cramped, little crew quarters and runs them through the laundering outlet in the ‘fresher, needing something productive and redundant to keep his mind distracted.

Half an hour goes by and Rey’s signature still remains tucked away inside the dankness of the engine room. So Ben moves on to the cabin beside theirs, retrieving the first set of sheets and pillow covers from the outlet and putting in the next.

Waiting, he tucks a flimsy corner of the dark, warm fabric into the first bunk’s metal frame.

_She hadn’t been_ this _upset after her exam, had she?_

He reaches over, folding the remaining top half of the sheet around its scant mattress.

_But she hasn’t been as talkative lately…_

And that is true, he thinks, shifting his focus down to the bunk’s bottom corners. She hasn’t been sleeping well either, jostling him from dreams he can’t quite remember to go pace the length of the ship, claiming only to be anxious over whether she’d be hired on or not. But he assumed she was apprehensive about _not_ getting the position, not actually _acquiring_ the job.

Moving on to the next mattress, and plucks a sheet from his recently dried pile and begins smoothing it out.

_Is she upset with me?_ , he wonders, suddenly — though not newly — self-conscious of the fact that he’s the one who’s put them in this position of forced anonymity. Where she’ll have to be the more public of the two of them while he hides away from potentially prying eyes when and where he can.

Going out for barely a fraction of a day is one thing, but _working_ , actively participating in a society, no matter how separate it is from the First Order… That’s something else. Something he’ll never be able to aid her with.

_Does she feel like she has no other options?_ He tucks the last edge of the sheet under the second mattress. _Does she feel trapped?_

But before he can stew too long on that thought, the bright thrum of her Force signature catches his attention as she makes her way down the quarters’ corridor. When she comes into view, stopping in the doorframe of their room, her cheeks are blotchy and moist, her eyes impossibly green in the glow panels’ fluorescence. But her expression is stern, resolute. Not the look of someone who’d just spent the better part of an hour sobbing.

Rey steps confidently into the cabin, her legs steady as she leans down and clutches the still warm pillowcases and sheets to her chest. She sits down, then, swaddling herself in the wrinkled bundle and resting her temple atop the unmade bunk beside her. Even still, her face is stony.

“I did something awful,” she says finally, so quiet he can barely hear her.

And in that moment she looks so unbearably young to him. So small and helpless, though he knows she’s anything but. Yet he still feels the urge to comfort her. So he lowers himself onto the floor with her, positioning himself so that she has space but could reach out and touch him if she felt the need; readying himself to listen, whatever she elects to tell him.

“Just now?” he asks. “Or when?”

“Before I took my examination.”

He nods, prompting her to continue.

“I needed to have proof of identification to apply and…I _don’t_ have anything like that…” she murmurs and Ben feels his stomach drop.

He should have planned for this. But what does he know about _real_ jobs? He’s never had one. He wouldn’t have been able to plan even if he’d known what was going to be required of her. “So… What’d you do?”

“I lied.” Her phrasing is short and simple but he can see the way her nostrils flare, fighting off another wave of tears threatening to make an appearance. “I got inside her head and made her do what I wanted…”

“Who?”

Rey sniffles. “The attendant I told you about. The girl.” And he ticks his chin, recalling how kindly Rey had spoken of her after the fact, how nice ‘this young clerk’ had been to her. But then…

“Did she find you out?” he asks in a rush, a gut-wrenching scenario of Rey’s — and his own — cover being blown at the hands of something as seemingly harmless as a job application playing through his mind. Then again, he has no experience to back up such assumptions.

But Rey’s brow pinches and she crumbles before him again, tumbling forward against his chest and sobbing out a strained ‘no’ into his collarbone. “I think she was just as confused as I was,” she cries as he snakes his arms carefully about her middle, cocooning them both in the warmth of dried laundry. “She said she was _new_ and— And she was nervous about her job and I just _took advantage of her_!”

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to comfort her when he’s no better. When he’s _worse_ …

How long had it taken him to grow numb towards the internal consequences of just the act she’s describing? The act he’s seen her perform before.

And to think they call it a _Jedi_ mind trick. As if it were noble.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks low, no judgment or surprise in his question, not wanting her to feel out of place in common company.

She rubs her face into the collar of his shirt, leaving snot trails on the fabric in all likelihood, but he finds he doesn’t care. “I don’t know, I guess I panicked,” she mutters. “I’ve never had to deal with situations like that before… Jakku— Disagreements, _confusion_ , was dealt with physically. And there was nobody for me to fight at the garage. If I ran out I would’ve looked suspicious, so…”

“I think you would have looked suspicious if you beat someone to a pulp, too, though,” he offers as genially as he can and she chuckles wetly.

“It’s not funny,” she gasps through a resistant smile, but he has to say he agrees with her.

“You’re right, it’s not.” He sobers, brushing out a tangle in her hair with his pinky. “What…do you want to do about it?” The question fills the narrow space between them and he feels her body seem to shrink around it.

_”I don’t know,”_ her voice floats through his mind, fragile and, oh, so small.

He rubs her back, waiting for a response or for her to tell him to stop.

“We’re going to need the money,” she finally whispers, and he wants to assure her that credits don’t matter. They’ll go live in the damn forest if they need to. But he suspects her hangup on the job is more personal than just what she can earn monetarily, so he says nothing, letting her continue tearfully. “And if I confess to…forcing the clerk to let me take the exam, then—”

“Then you put a target on your back,” he finishes for her, head spinning at the mere thought.

“ _Our_ backs,” she corrects with a sob, shame washing through her in obscene amounts.

“So…”

“So I don’t do anything!” she exclaims dolefully, clutching him tighter. “I don’t apologize or give the job to somebody who applied properly! I live a lie!”

Ben’s throat constricts, his blood running cold and his palms sweating. “We’re already living a lie…” he admits, the words dropping a weight within his gut and sticking.

But Rey nods against his shoulder, suddenly calm after her outburst. “There wasn’t any way around it. Not with how we left.”

He sighs, burying his nose into the crook of her neck and breathing her in, reminding himself of her _realness_. She lets him, doing the same and allowing her body to slump a bit. After long enough for her to start getting fidgety, he rumbles, “We’re not normal people…”

With a self-deprecating laugh, Rey whispers back, “No, but it’s nice to pretend, isn’t it?”

He hums his agreement.

Another few minutes go by. The laundering outlet alerts the end of it’s drying cycle and he makes to go get it, untangling himself until Rey presses deeper against him, shoving him to the ground in a heap of their sheets.

“Not yet,” she pleas softly, knowing full well he won’t deny her the warmth of this little moment.

So he holds her until a second beep resounds from the ‘fresher and she lets him stand to go retrieve their clean laundry. He makes quick work, tucking and folding and untucking in the next cabin over, then runs back to her arms. She’s seated on the edge of their bunk waiting, looking almost herself again but with an air of discomfort still surrounding her. He wants to be rid of it for her.

And with a blurted question, an idea already forming at the back of his mind, he asks, “Would you like me to braid your hair?”

Her gaze rises to his, still a bit puffy and brilliant green. “Yes, please…”

He settles himself on the bed behind her, resting on his knees and already carding her unbrushed hair through his fingers. She sighs comfortably as he begins his work but murmurs ruefully after a beat, “They’re not allowed to pay me in hard credits. I’ll have to make a credit account before I start on…”

“We can think about that tomorrow,” he offers, wishing he could siphon the anxiousness from her body directly.

“That’s what I’ve been telling myself this whole week.” Her voice is curt and unconvincingly cold. “It’s not a foolproof reminder, I’m afraid…”

“After I’m done, then,” he says, craning his neck and pressing a kiss to the edge of her hairline.

“What are you going to do this time?” she prods and she sounds _excited_ for what his answer might be. He’s lost count of how many times he’s done her hair since they left but is beyond grateful for her anticipation; he might even find it more enjoyable than she does if he’s being completely honest with himself.

“Something different,” he responds cryptically, winking even though her back is turned to him, even though his hands are trembling at the prospect of the memories he’s about to call to mind to complete _this_ style.

She scoffs. “I’d hope so…”

“It’s not one I made up,” he clarifies. “It’s one Leia taught me…Alderaanian…”

Rey’s spine straightens at that, intrigue and annoyance swarming through her end of the bond. She hates it that he’s too much of a coward to utter a simple word like _mother_ , but not enough to dampen her curiosity. So he carries on, “It’s the only braid she taught Han. Or the only one he remembered, anyway…”

“So,” Rey drawls, the tone of awkwardness she always affects when the subject of his life ‘before’ is mentioned coming out in full force, “does that mean she taught you others?”

“Of course,” he sniffs. “I was the better listener of…the two of us…” He shakes his head, returning his attention to her now mostly smoothened hair, separating the first section he needs at the crown of her head, brushing away her natural part.

“So what’s the difference? Or, I guess I mean, why this braid, whatever it is?” She sounds so genuinely confused that it occurs to him with sudden embarrassment that the likelihood of her knowing anything about the intimacies of Alderaanian culture is slim to none.

“Alderaan was known for, among other things, their braids,” he explains, surprisingly contented to do so, even if he does sound far too much like his mother for his own liking. “Most, if not all of them had specific meanings or were worn for royal traditions.”

Rey nods minutely, careful not to upset the motion of his fingers as he begins weaving an umber crown meticulously sized to the span of his palm around the top of her head. “There’s the Monarch’s braid, which was worn exclusively by the Queen for ceremonies or more _courtly_ events.” He spreads his hand gently over the back of her skull, measuring from middle finger to heel, thumb to pinky. “There’s the mourning braid, worn for funerals and—” he trails off, starting a loose twist from the center of her part and moving his explanation on to a less personally cutting style. “Sometimes colored silks would be woven into braids to honor visiting cultures during banquets and what have you.”

And the more he talks, — the more he _braids_ — the more Rey relaxes against him. Her thoughts drifting away from her newly acquired job and latching onto every detail he offers her pertaining to Alderaan’s convoluted yet charming hair traditions.

He’s nearly finished, tucking the three, thin, remaining braids — separated by spaces the width of his four fingers — into the broad twist curving around the base of her neck, when she asks almost timidly, almost impatiently, “What does this one mean?”

And Ben stops, a hazy, warm-toned memory of his father’s fingers carding and curling into his mother’s long, dark hair coming to the forefront of his mind. The measurement of his hands determining the length and width, thickness and thinness of her braids. Much larger and less tightly wound than his own outcomes had been when he used to perform the same style for her. The specificity of a loved one's hands.

“It shows how love varies from person to person,” he says, checking his work with a final glance and lowering himself down behind her, hugging her to his chest. “It’s too complicated a style to do by yourself, meant for someone you trust. Every braid is determined by whose hands are working them.” He stills, gathering his courage. “My _mom_ , she learned this from _her_ mother, the Queen. And then she taught me and…Dad. She’d always ask one of us to do it before she left on business or if Dad did. It’s a reminder of whoever completed the braids. As if their hand is there—” He rests his palm gingerly at the top of Rey’s scalp, then caresses slowly along the back of her head, following the waterfalling, tiered motion of her braids down to her nape. He lets his fingers idle there before replacing them with his lips, kissing her name into her skin.

It’s only then he notices her tears have resumed and he sputters despite himself, afraid he had, perhaps, been a bit too forward, “Rey, wha—”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she blurts out, but he’s lost to her meaning.

“About what?”

“About the _garage_!” Her cheeks are splotchy again when he turns to look at her, brow pinched in distress. “I wanted to, but I didn’t want you to think I— That I’m—”

“Not good?” he tries incredulously, finishing for her. She nods, her jaw set in shame. Or anger. Both, likely. She’s never just one thing, Rey. “I don’t think it’s fair for you to beat yourself up like this.”

“But—”

“I’m not saying what you did was right,” he interrupts, knowing firsthand the wrongness of her actions. “I’m just saying look at who you’re talking to.” And she does, twisting in his arms with regret and stubbornness in her gaze. “I’m not…perfect.” _Far,_ far _from it_ , he muses. “I’m in no position to expect you to be…”

For a long while, all she does is stare tearfully at him. Then she kisses him. First, the moles above his left brow, which he always feels look like specs of dirt on his face with where they’re placed. Then the tip of his nose. Then his eyelids, which she does, no doubt, in some form of retaliation because she knows it makes him weak in the knees. And finally, his lips, where she doesn’t linger long before whispering genially, “Sometimes I hate how practical you are.”

He chortles. “Believe me, between you and me, you are the more practical. I promise.”

She laughs, then, too. A low sound in the back in her throat. Not quite exuberant, but no longer dismayed or self-deprecating. It’s pleasant, at the very least.

“Thank you, love,” she says against his lips, and he nearly whines at the endearment, “…for listening and…” her fingers skirt carefully along the braided back of her head, “this. It’s— The meaning is beautiful.”

He kisses her forehead by way of a ‘you’re welcome’. Then, recalling a question he’d had not two hours ago, “Who’s Kira Solana?”

Her face heats beneath the press of his lips and he dips his chin to look at her. She’s as red as a Gundark.

“That’s, uh, _me_ ,” she mumbles, and he quirks a brow in question. “Or, the name I’ve decided to use. It’s what they know me by at the repair shop…”

“Kira,” he repeats, clucking his tongue, testing out the sound. “That’s a star system, you know. And a trade route.”

Rey tilts her head, thinking. “Huh, guess I must have heard some spacer mention it at the Outpost or something. I’ve always liked the way it sounded.”

“And…what about the surname?” he prods, a little hopeful.

But Rey looks confused, if only for a split second before realization passes over her face. “Oh! Solana… I made that one up. Sorry, it sounds like—”

“Mine…” he murmurs, watching her reaction play out. Though she doesn’t seem as shaken by the similarity as he does and he’s left to wonder if she’s aware of the significance last names hold in a great deal of cultures. Especially pertaining to…

His experience with her would tell him it’s unlikely.

And, really, he could just ask her now. It’s a simple question. He’d explain everything about…wedding traditions to her. Those he’s familiar with and others less so. Let her decide if or what she wanted. He’d insist upon the surname, of course, the thought making his head spin. The idea of them being connected in more ways than the Force, he could almost cry. And it’s no speculation that he would if she accepted him, if he was able to get the damned question out. Four words, or maybe even two if he was bold enough. But he’s not. His confidence has been spent over this past week, he doesn’t know how much he has left remaining…

“It’s not too suspicious, is it?” she asks, pulling him from his reverie. “I really couldn’t think of anything else. Well, I made it up on a whim, but it was just the first thing that came to mind.”

“No, no, it’s perfect,” he assures, liking the way it sounds attached to her — liking that it was her first choice name-wise — _too much_ to tell her any differently. “It sounds… _regal_.”

“Yeah?” She smiles, eyes lighting up.

“Yeah. Like a queen from a legend. Or a _temptress_ ,” he rumbles and she snorts, swatting the side of his head limply.

Despite the blush on her cheeks, she counters, “Or maybe a warrior princess.”

He twists them around on the mattress, clambering overtop her golden body with a smirk and teasing, “They have those?”

“I certainly hope so,” she quips, holding his face between her two, perfect hands and drawing him down to her.

He goes glady, settling himself into the crooks of her warm body and humming into the curve under her chin, “Me too…” 

————

The flickering holo on Hux’s desk of Emim’Ai tints her pale green skin a sickly shade of blue. The sour look on her face does nothing to mitigate the ghostly figure she cuts either.

“If they were headed away from your remaining flagships, there’re only three lanes they could have taken from Eadu,” she drones, her voice low and intentionally dry. “And one of those is under your jurisdiction.”

Hux nods with mock interest, having heard roughly the same spiel from both Morga Bunna and Dhidal Nyz this morning. “And one is a trade route and the other is in Hutt Space,” he says, beating her to her point.

Her little holographic form ticks it’s chin up before she carries on, “Precisely. Anything remotely close to your control in the Kessel sector would be a death wish and Hutt Space… It’s risky, but not impossible.”

And Hux smirks despite himself, ahead of her again as Bunna — the reckless old fool with an unnatural thirst for danger — had shared a similar pattern of thought with him this morning. But before he can ‘predict’ what her hunch for where Ren and the scavenger have fled is, she plows forward determinedly, “I don’t think that’s what they did though.”

Hux stills. “You believe they followed the trade route?” he queries. Nyz had claimed to have played with that idea himself but had ultimately scrapped it in favor of the Hutt Space theory, as well. Communication was so unpredictable within the crime bosses’ sectors that ‘recent’ news had, no doubt, been sat on for a month or longer before making it into the more civilized galaxy. It would be the perfect place for a pair of murderous fugitives to hide.

“Triellus Trade Route cuts right through what a great majority of the galaxy would call ‘Free Space’.” She pauses, letting him mull her words over and Hux finds himself uncomfortably relieved that she does. “Most systems along that run don’t hold safeguarded worlds, and sectors are packed tightly together, too. It may not be the safest option, but it’s the one that offers the best chance for invisibility.”

Drumming his fingers on his desk, Hux thinks up a pointless question just to milk his position, “Say I give you the go-ahead. What will you do?”

Emim’Ai scowls almost imperceptibly, yet her voice maintains its tonelessness as she responds dutifully, “Follow the route. Look into where people usually cut it and move on to another lane.” If her droid-like rigidity allowed her to shrug, Hux thinks she would have. “It’ll take time, but there are a few systems beyond Kessel unproclaimed but loyal to the First Order. You’ve broadcasted the ship model they took from Naboo. I have enough to pluck around and dig up dirt.”

Hux can’t say what about her brutal ease convinces him of her theory, but he finds himself nodding. She’s young for the experience she’s rumored to have within the Guild, known for tireless pursuits and drive to make a name for herself. He can respect that, and so he trusts her. And it's not as if the Knights of Ren have offered him any details of their search as of yet; waiting to make contact until their 'prey' has been caught, most likely. If they succeed, that is.

“Go,” he orders, tilting his head to the young bounty hunter in something almost like courtesy. “Find them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my original plan for this chapter included a Leia POV but I rearranged the story's timeline the teeniest, most insignificant bit so I could push that back into the next one. The Resistance content I was looking to cover would have overwhelmed this chapter and I didn't want to go another _month_ without updating.
> 
> (I also didn't want to post a fourth, monster long chapter either, yikes)
> 
> Anyway...I love you and I hope you enjoyed! <3
> 
> OH! I'm also looking to update this fic's summary, so if there are any 'excerpts' somewhere in this chaotic mess of a story you think would check off that box well, let me know! ;)


	18. Oshiran Sapphire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leia talks 'business'. Rey has a busy day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning that there is about a week and a half time skip between Leia's POV and Rey's. I feel as though it's clarified well enough from the previous chapter to this one, but just in case... 
> 
> (More on timeline stuff at the end of the chapter)

There are many places within the known — and unknown — galaxy that Leia Organa has traveled. Ukio, as it so happens, is not one of them.

And that makes her anxious.

It’s not that she’s distrustful of the Ukians and their Overleige, or Evaan even, she just feels unprepared yet again. Like she’s walking blindly into a deal.

She wants to know all that’s being offered to her and what she herself, along with the Resistance, is expected to offer back.

There are other areas in which she’d like to be informed, as well. How the Overleige plans to put up the now nearly two-hundred comprehensive Resistance members, according to Evans’s estimation. How useful Ukio will be for recruitment purposes with its apparent galactic anonymity. Whether search and rescue missions the likes of Finn’s standards will be operable on the former trade world. Whether missions, in general, will be operable there.

Even so, she follows Evaan’s lead without preconceived notions, keeping her mind open to the positive possibilities.

Granted, she hadn’t expected to be put through a three-day-long deep cleaning and quarantine along with the rest of the Rebels in favor of ‘keeping our sensitive crops protected from off-world diseases’, as Tol dosLla, the bureaucratic leader of Ukio, had phrased it when the Resistance’s ships had finally made contact after six days in and out of hyperspace.

But she supposes it’s not her place to complain when the Overleige is already being so generous, allowing her to use their home as a military base, putting a potential target on their recovering world.

And it _is_ a lovely world. Covered end to end in rolling grain fields of gold and green, hundreds upon hundreds of clear rivers irrigating the land at every turn. The air is fresh and without a lick of humidity, reminding Leia of Alderaan to some regard if she allows herself such thoughts. It harbors no mountains like her homeworld once did, but it is beyond magnificent nonetheless and she can only wonder what it must have looked like _before_ the Imperial Loyalists left their scarring mark on the planet. She, personally, cannot see it, but Evaan had assured her during their quarantine that the difference in crop health and output is still noticeable after nearly six years of recuperation.

Leia must admit, as well, that the three-day break dosLla forced upon the Resistance was reluctantly welcome. It gave her the opportunity to sleep and edge away the migraine that never seems to part from the back of her skull. Seeing her brother reunite with Wedge had been a surprisingly emotional experience for her despite her lack of participation in it. He almost seemed like the Luke she remembered once again.

That isn’t to say Wedge hadn’t been eager to greet her, too. She can’t remember the last time someone pulled her into a hug so swiftly.

But, per the usual pattern of her life, business had to be attended to, leaving little time to waste on sentiments and reminiscence.

dosLla had requested an urgent meeting with her upon her release from quarantine to discuss the security of the world and its capital city of Sashasa, — in which the Resistance was staying — and her overall plans of operation for the Rebels.

_But that’s just the question, now isn’t it?_ she thinks, drumming her interlocked fingers over the backs of her knuckles, waiting in the designated conference room of the Overleige’s political facilities for dosLla to appear; the rest of the Resistance and their flightcraft settled comfortably in the capitol’s formerly unoccupied military hangars for the time being.

Sashasa, architecture-wise, is much of what Leia would have expected. Reflecting the natural landscapes of the planet through wide and squat stoneworking of warm tones and rudimentary, yet effective, iron supports. Very little artistry went into the construction of the semi-modern metropolis, only the necessary amount of adornments present to distinguish the cityscape from the swaying hills of grain. It strikes her as appropriate, considering everything about the former trade world relies on practically and efficiency for the multitude of crops’ sake; no time to waste on trivial things like beauty.

She thinks, perhaps, her younger self would have resented that way of thinking, coming from a planet that placed such imperativeness on art and it’s necessity. But now, as Tol dosLla strides into the conference room, — two lightly-armored guards in tow — she is appreciative of such timeliness and tact. She needs some semblance of order in her life after the chaos of the past month.

“General Organa,” dosLla says, nodding his acknowledgment while taking a seat across from her at the long table. “I apologize for the implementation of your quarantine, but I felt it necessary with the still-fragile state of our crops.”

Leia waves him off as quickly as he finishes. “Not a problem. I understand your concerns.” He looks quite the same as the last time she saw him— what must be over twenty years ago now. His dull, brown hair is a bit greyer, naturally, but that’s to be expected at their age. “I’m just grateful you’re offering the Resistance and myself refuge here, it’s sorely needed.”

“Of course,” he answers, waving _her_ off in return. “It’s the least I can do after what your friend Verlaine did for my people. She’s a remarkable tactician.”

Leia hums her hearty agreement, then, “Is there anything we can do to return the favor?”

“Win the war, I suppose,” dosLla chuckles, seemingly pleased with his little joke before sobering again. “No, but I do stress the careful treatment of our fieldwork. We have many agricultural plants, some of which are quite close to our military bays. If you could pass on to your Rebels that as wide a berth as they can give our growing-fields would be greatly appreciated, I will be satisfied.”

“Consider it done,” she assures him, feeling somewhat light-hearted at how smoothly their interaction is going already.

“Now,” he continues, folding his hands and leaning forward as if to whisper a secret. “It’s come to my understanding that Luke Skywalker is with you. At least, that’s what my medical staff has relayed to me…”

Leia’s initial sneer is battled by the pride swelling within her chest at the power her brother still holds over most of the galaxy, but she responds with as much professionalism as she can muster, “Yes, he is. And he is more than willing to contribute to the cause.” She recalls, with some lingering surprise, at how non-combative her twin had been when she laid out her expectations of him on the way to the Abrion sector. He hadn’t even opposed her requirement that he offer up his face and voice for recruitment purposes. It’s had her wondering for _days_ just how guilty he feels over…Ben…to respond so eagerly to her every whim.

“Excellent,” dosLla replies, relaxing a bit in his seat. “Was he present at the First Order’s recent defeat?

“No,” Leia murmurs, keeping her voice even. “He was retrieved from… _retirement_ about a week after.”

dosLla strokes a contemplative hand over his thin beard. “I would have assumed he had contributed to your victory,” he muses and Leia stills.

She’d never considered their escape in the Crait System a victory. A lucky break, perhaps, but not a _victory_. And yet, was that not the day — if her assumptions ring true — that her son had turned away from the First Order and stepped closer toward the Light? She’d felt his Light, hadn’t she? That is no small victory.

Tears begin to well in her eyes but she wrangles back her emotions, replying dryly, “My brother needed a bit of convincing before he made his commitments to the Resistance. But he is with us now in full, I can assure you.”

dosLla eyes her suspiciously, muttering a low, “I see…”

“Your Highness,” she starts, needing to get to her own points. “My brother is going to be imperative to the growth of the Resistance, but I very much doubt he will be the Jedi you’re expecting him to be. For him to be useful to this cause, I need to know whether or not you will allow us to broadcast recruitment transmissions.”

“Will they be traceable?” he prods.

“If Ukio is to remain our home base, no. We send out rendezvous coordinates with specific timeframes that anyone looking to join can meet. Any and all tracing will lead to those locations, not here.” Leia pauses to allow dosLla a moment to think, then carries on, “They are never clean operations, but we do keep tabs on where the First Order is within the galaxy and work around those for our pick-up points. The only people who will know about your world are Rebels.”

dosLla nods absentmindedly, mulling over her words, then asks, “What happened to your brother?”

And Leia can’t decide whether to roll her eyes or sob. There are quite a few more _pressing_ topics than her twin’s reprehensible behavior, but she supposes Luke Skywalker is the ‘great mystery’ of the galaxy. She can’t blame dosLla for his curiosity.

Though before she can formulate a proper response to such an unanswerable question, a sudden and somber tug of the Force grabs her attention.

She hasn’t felt an urging like this in what seems like ages and it’s really no wonder with the amount of much-needed rest she’s been allowed over the past three days. Her mind is refreshed and open to the flow of the Force. It’s a more than welcome sensation.

“General?” dosLla prods, snapping her back to reality.

“Forgive me, Your Highness but—” She zeroes in on the pull, trying to magnify it’s radiance and… “Someone’s outside the door,” she explains, ticking her head in the direction of the large, iron entryway of the conference room.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can feel them.” Leia divests more focus to the thrumming Force signature and it’s growing familiarity. She recognizes this person.

“Are they a threat?” dosLla asks with urgency, and it’s only then that Leia registers the tenseness of his guards behind him.

She smirks despite their worry. “No, no, it’s—” _Finn…_ “It’s one of mine,” she tells them. “He probably followed me here…”

dosLla, for all his primness, looks completely lost. “And why would he do that?”

“If I had to guess,” she chortles, “to make sure I ask you about rescue missions.”

“Ah.” dosLla takes a moment to regain his barely slipping composure, then questions further, “Do you need to speak with him?”

“If you don’t mind,” she accepts, already rising from her seat and making her way towards the door.

“Not at all,” he mutters, and Leia catches no malice in his tone, if not bewilderment. Though she doubts he would be so accommodating had she not just offered up a display of her own Force ability.

Hovering at the door-release, Leia tamps down her own amusement at the whole situation before her, recentering herself around her role as a leader. Then she opens the door.

A startled Finn jumps back from the wall he’d been leaning, oh, so casually against and stares at Leia, eyes as wide as moons.

“What are you doing here?” she chides, attempting to sound more frustrated with him than she truly is.

He sputters, seemingly unable to respond.

“Did you follow me?” she asks instead, pondering how in the galaxy he hadn’t gotten lost trekking through the maze-like capitol building when she nearly had. And she’d been given direct instructions on exactly how to arrive at this very room.

“I, uh, no. BB-8 did,” Finn admits, kicking his toe nervously atop the stone flooring. “And I, uhm… _We_ followed BB-8.” He peers sheepishly down the extensive corridor to his right and Leia tracks the destination of his gaze. About fifteen meters down the hall, she spots the precarious rolling of the orange and white BB unit, Dameron’s leather-clad arm trying to reel the droid back into the safety of the cornered walkway, and Rose and Chewie’s heads peeking out to observe the proceedings. The instant they spot her eyes on them, they retreat into their hideaway-hallway.

Leia can’t help but snort. She wonders if Chewie put them up this or if he just decided to tag along for some excitement after their quarantine. The latter seems more probable in her experience.

“Were you eavesdropping?” she asks Finn, turning back to him with a barely contained smile.

“No, just waiting…”

She nods, stepping out from the door’s threshold and giving him her full attention. “What do you need?”

“Well,” he drawls, scratching the back of his head and puffing his cheeks. “I— I hadn’t planned on coming to you but, uhm, well… I thought, maybe—”

She quirks a brow, willing him to ‘spit it out’.

“It’s just… I thought this might be easier if I asked you to ask him…” Finn mumbles, but Leia’s still lost to his meaning.

“Who?”

His eyes widen again as if realizing he hasn’t clarified all that much. “Your brother. Luke. He, uh— You’re the only one he really listens to…”

_Fair enough_ , she thinks, weighing the agency behind his statement. “What do you want me to ask him?”

And Finn takes a shuddering breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet, visibly steeling himself and his courage. “I want—” He inhales again, slamming his heels to the floor and letting out in a nervous and whispered rush, “I want Luke to teach me about the Force…”

Leia feels her face go white. 

————

Creating a credit account, as it turns out, is a highly tedious affair. Though Rey assumes the process wouldn’t have been so bothersome had she actually possessed a form of identification solidifying her existence in the galaxy. Regardless, she’d had to spew some terribly tragic backstory she and Ben had come up with together about slumming it in the underbelly of Coruscant for thirteen years. Working odd mechanic jobs and only saving just enough after all that time to buy a transport ticket off-world and start over somewhere new.

The credit clerk working that day had been a middle-aged, Iktotchi woman who really just looked like she’d wanted to go home, so Rey didn’t feel quite so guilty for lying considering her audience seemed entirely uninterested in her sob story.

Even still, she’d spent a good three hours at the ‘convenience bank’ in Raxulon depositing about three-fourths of the money left from Ben’s shuttle into her account. Verifying names and privacy codes and credit restrictions that went, for the most part, right over her head.

But it was worth it for days like these— two weeks after her first, official start day at Gorora’s Repairs, thinking it was just going to be another six hours of grimy hands, keeping her head down, and congenially avoiding the friendly advances of ZyrRaa, the young clerk whose mind she’d tampered with, Rey’s called into the main office for some reason Dalo doesn’t properly specify.

She assumes he’s going to ask her how she’s adjusting to her work schedule: as well as she could have hoped to, spending a sizable chunk of her day without Ben. Or if her new coveralls fit better: the first had flooded about two inches above her ankles. Or maybe even if she’s interested in working a couple more hours for a raised pay: yes, she’d be able to purchase that 22-B Nightfalcon she’s been eyeing at the speeder dealership a few blocks down all the sooner.

Instead, Rey’s superior ushers her behind the front desk, knocks twice on the blinded-glass office door there, and tells her to head right in with a light smile as he leaves, heading back into the garage without a word.

_That’s…odd?_

She’d always imagined the small, tucked-away room belonged to Dalo, considering he seemed not only to be her boss, but everyone else’s on the garage floor, as well. So when the door slides open and an unfamiliar face greets her, Rey has to take a moment to regain her bearings.

The woman standing behind the broad, durasteel desk before Rey is… _tall_. Taller than Ben possibly, with vibrant purple twists braided into her greying-black hair and a well-tailored jumpsuit similar to the one Rey wears, but far cleaner and charcoal grey rather than faded blue. A holographic disk resting on the corner of her desktop reads _**Gorora Yyris**_.

Rey’s breath hitches, that uneasy ‘fight or flight’ instinct rearing its head at the back of her mind.

_This can’t be good…_

“Miss Solana?” Gorora tips her head, voice resounding and deep, though not abrasive. “Would you prefer to stand in the doorway or take a seat? I’m entirely flexible,” she says, smirking warmly and Rey feels some of her apprehension slip away. _Some_.

“Oh! Right,” she blurts, acknowledging her awkwardness with an apologetic nod as she steps into the room and plants herself in one of the sparsely cushioned chairs at Gorora’s desk.

“How are you doing, Miss Solana?” the older woman asks, extending a hand to her before throwing it back over her chest in alarm. Rey flinches, anxiety flaring once more. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m Gorora. I’m the owner,” she clarifies, gesturing indiscriminately to space around them, then offering her hand up again in greeting.

Rey takes it, palms sweating as she stutters, “Yeah, I, uh— I gathered,” then mentally kicking herself at how condescending she sounds.

But Gorora only smiles, rolling her eyes showily. “I guess penning your name on what’s yours does work some of the time, huh?”

Rey chuckles bleakly.

“You look nervous, dear,” her apparent _boss_ observes with exceeding accuracy. “Can I get you some water? I have tea, too, if you like,” she offers, turning in her seat towards a metal cabinet to the right of her desk, her eyebrows raised, waiting for a response.

“Oh, no, no. I’m all right…” Rey shakes her head, her upper lip beginning to sweat with nerves. “Uh, why am I here? Or, sorry, why did you, uh, want to see…me?” She winces.

“Oh! Right, of course, of course,” Gorora rushes, waving a placating hand. “You’d think I would have started with that, huh?” She laughs, seemingly at herself. “It’s really no big deal, we just seemed to have lost your ID info.”

_Not good, not good, notgoodnotgoodnotgood…_

It takes all of Rey’s self-control not to squeak, or blanch, or run out the room altogether. “I’m so, so sorry ma’am,” she croaks, trying to keep her voice steady, “I— I don’t know how that happened.” _Yes, you do, liar…_ “I— What do I need to—”

“Woah, hey…” Gorora cuts her off softly. “Hey, this is a problem on _our_ end. Our datapads are old as _Sith_. You’re information probably just got canceled out somewhere in transmission. You just give it to us again and we’re all set, easy fix.” The older woman flashes a brilliant white grin as she shrugs, but the kindness in her voice comes a second too late for Rey.

Her breathing is out of hand now, she feels like she’s drowning in the Sinking Fields of Jakku, unable to resurface. It doesn’t help that she hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in over three weeks, that damnable _city_ in her dreams keeping her up until the sun rises. She’s either going to faint from exhaustion or shame. In front of her _boss_ , no less!

From out of her tunneling vision, Rey watches Gorora rise swiftly out of her seat and retrieve a metal bottle from her cabinet, opening and handing it to Rey with promptness and alarm. “It’s water, dear,” she says sympathetically. “Take a deep breath…”

Rey does, guzzling down the chilled liquid and willing her lungs to cooperate with her brain. Willing her brain to think logically. _A problem on_ their _end,_ she muses, repeating Gorora’s words to calm herself down. _They don’t suspect_ I _did anything…_

“I’m sorry,” Rey sighs between gulps of water and air. “This— This is my first real job. I just…don't want to mess anything up…”

Gorora nods, understanding written plainly on her face. “I remember feeling the same way,” she says kindly, her dark eyes crinkling. “Sorry I spooked ya, hoped this would be a nice, little ‘get to know you’ meeting, but—”

“No, no,” Rey waves her off, still a tad breathless, taking another sip. “It’s my fault, don’t apologize. I’m…jittery?”

Her boss smiles dimly, returning to her seat and pulling a datapad out from within her desk. “Well, Miss Solana — whenever you’re ready, of course — how would you like us to receive your confirmation of ID?”

Rey takes what she hopes proves to be a calming breath. “Uhm, a bank note,” she decides, keeping her face neutral.

“Perfect,” Gorora mutters, clicking her tongue on the ‘t’ and typing quickly on her screen before handing the datapad to Rey. “It’s going to ask for your account number and how much you want to withdraw,” she explains, pointing to the places Rey’s supposed to fill in. “Whatever you take out we’ll pay back with your first paycheck.”

Rey’s head is swimming a bit as she takes in everything on the screen, but it doesn’t stop her from noticing the glinting, gold ring on Gorora’s left hand. It’s simple and thin, no wider than a quarter of an inch without any adornments aside from a bisecting black groove looping around its center. It reminds her errantly of an eclipse; she’d seen one once when she was very young. “I like your ring,” she mumbles, trying not to sound _too_ intrigued as she fills out her information.

“Oh, thank you!” The older woman’s smile tugs all the way up to her eyes as she admires her gold-banded her finger affectionately. “My wife got it for me for our fifteen year…”

“Fifteen year?” Rey prods, curious, glad to have a new and unfamiliar subject to distract her.

Her boss eyes her incredulously as she explains further, “Our wedding anniversary… Are you not married?” And Rey stiffens in her seat, blush spreading down her neck in embarrassment at her own inability to draw that obvious conclusion from its context. “Actually, no,” Gorora rushes, looking quite embarrassed herself and pressing her palms haltingly atop her desk. “You don’t have to answer that. I get myself locked up in this office all day and forget how to carry out a normal conversation. Forgive me.”

Rey chuckles at that, deciding she likes Gorora Yyris quite a bit and regretting that the catalyst for their meeting had to be her own lies nearly coming into light. “No, it’s okay. I’m…not… _Technically_ ,” she answers, her blush warming further as she tries to put into words exactly what she and Ben are. Connected, bonded,…lovers? She squirms a little at the thought.

“Ah, are you in that awkward ‘do you want to, do _you_ want to’ phase?” Gorora asks, a flicker of reminiscence in her gaze, but Rey feels entirely lost once again.

“Uhhhm.”

“Have they asked you to marry them yet, your partner? Or have _you_ asked _them_?”

And with, admittedly, probably less than the necessary amount of knowledge regarding the subject of ‘marriage’, — since that’s what everybody seems to be calling it — Rey is struck with a sudden and brilliant idea. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to,” she tells her boss, whose smile is so genuine it sort of makes Rey’s eyes water.

“That’s sweet,” Gorora murmurs, looking like someone who doesn’t regularly receive good news and is savoring it for all it’s worth. And for all Rey knows, that could very well be true with everything she assumes goes into owning a business and keeping it running.

Returning the datapad to her boss, Rey swallows around a lump of guilt in her throat and asks if there’s anything else she’s needed for. Gorora shakes her head, the remnants of a smile still dancing over her slightly-wrinkled face as she stands, extending her hand once again. “That’s it, have a good rest of your day, Miss Solana. Oh! And good luck with your proposal,” she says as if telling a secret, shaking Rey’s hand and sending her out with a wink.

————

Rey is not unaccustomed to kindness. There had been a select few older scavengers she’d crossed paths with at the Outpost that took pity on her when she was young and still learning how to efficiently defend herself. When the scrap she’d unearthed from the Graveyard wasn’t quite up to par or plentiful enough to live off of. They didn’t treat her as if she was property or a means to an end, offering her spare portions if and when she needed them and clueing her in on the best locations to make a worthwhile find. Examples of generosity and grace that, in retrospect, made her vastly uncharmed life somewhat bearable.

Yet, she is not so naive as to expect kindness from everyone. It’s easy enough to weed those less inclined to common decency out at a first meeting, anyway.

And this jeweler — this high-collared, stiff-necked, looking-down-his-nose-at-her jeweler — is so glaringly ‘less inclined’ that he reeks with his own self-importance. It makes Rey’s nose wrinkle.

She’d spent a good half hour seeking out a jewelry shop or vendor in Raxulon’s downtown after her shift ended at the garage, practically sprinting out the door to begin her search before sensibility or doubt could get the best of her. But she’d come upon the uncomfortably over-illuminated store, with its impeccably dressed salespeople and near-frigid temperature, more swiftly than she originally would have given herself credit for having never actually _seen_ a real jewelry shop until arriving on Raxus.

But her impression isn’t all too endearing as the first thing she’d experienced upon stepping through the shop’s dainty-looking glass door was a once over of disgust-turned-worry from nearly every clerk and customer in the room.

And, sure, her jumpsuit may have some grease stains on it and her hair might be a bit sweaty, but her face is clean. Her hands, too; and it’s not as if she’s going to touch anything she doesn’t want, anyway. So the concern she’s receiving — especially from this wisp of a jeweler before her — is entirely misguided.

“What kind of rings do you have?” Rey tries as the man glares at her, seemingly affronted that she would pick him, _of all people_ , to help her. But he’d been the only clerk counter open, and though she’s seriously considering waiting for another salesman to become unoccupied with the way this old man is staring at her, she doubts anyone else in the store would treat her differently. 

The floors, the walls, the damn _ceiling_ all look to be made of some pale, polished marble, metallic inlays shaped like cold sunbeams decorating the entryway. Oversized glow panels edge around the room, causing the jewels and precious metals displayed throughout to glitter more brilliantly than they would anywhere else. The sales attendants all wear fine-pressed, white and gold work uniforms that only add to the blinding light of the room, and, honestly, Rey kind of just wants to leave. There has to be somewhere else she can find a ring that doesn’t take itself as seriously as _this place_.

But just as she’s about to turn on her heel and go out in search of better prospects, the frail, old jeweler before her rolls his eyes with a huff and asks, “What did you have in mind, Miss?” His voice sounds like a ripper-raptor's cry.

Swallowing her surprise that this old man addressed her properly, she thinks back on her brief, if not inspiring conversation with Gorora. _What had she called it?_ “Uhm, a proposal?” Rey mumbles. Then, with more sureness and a straightened back, “A proposal ring.”

“ _Promise_ ring,” the jeweler mutters, not attempting to mask his condescension before moving on with his questioning. “And who do you intend to give this ring to?” He keeps his eyes on Rey, feigning interest, but makes no move to show her any of the copious amounts of displays throughout the room.

Her brow furrows. One for her confusion in why he wouldn’t jump on the chance to sell goods to a willing customer, but also for why he would ask such a question of her. _Why does he need to know about Ben?_

When it becomes clear to the man that Rey doesn’t want or know how to answer him, he groans irritably under his breath and tries again, “What are they like? Are they in a profession that would require a sturdier metal? Do they have hobbies or interests? What ring size do they wear?” He finally begins moving as he concludes is impatient rambling, producing a tray of particularly ostentatious, jeweled bands from within his counter and inches them closer to her.

Apprehension weighs heavily on both their expressions.

Rey takes stock of the options offered to her. Some rings are small, with fine jewel engravings in colors easy on her eyes, and appear generally attractive to her untrained opinion on the matter. But others look so heavy that simply wearing them _must_ cause some form of bone damage in one’s fingers. She shakes her head. “He likes blue,” Rey tells the clerk, hoping that will lead him in a better direction. “And he has, uh, larger hands…” 

The old man ticks his head in acknowledgment and replaces the first tray within his counter, retrieving another containing less, well, _gaudy_ looking selections. A full three rows on the tray hold rings with blue accents and she smiles proudly to herself, hoping beyond hope that she’s going about all this correctly.

She’s not really even sure rings are given at… _proposals_ , though she feels the physical representation might be pleasant when she does ask. And this jeweler hasn’t told her otherwise, which he more than likely would just for the opportunity to reveal her logic is wrong. So she peruses her options, trying to sort out which Ben would prefer since that seems to be how this whole thing works from the clerk’s line of questioning.

Eventually, her eyes catch on a wide, two-toned metal band, the bottom three-quarters made from a polished and grainy silver while the top sports a glossy, black metal she’s never seen before. Bisecting the two is a thin, blue band that appears to be some sort of gem, it’s shade somewhere in between a dark, thrashing ocean and a clear, blue sky. Rey finds herself grinning again.

“Uh,” she looks up at the old jeweler, pointing to the ring with a careful finger, her eyebrows raised in question, “this one, please.”

The man appraises her with disgust yet again, and perhaps a little sick amusement. “That’s Oshiran sapphire,” he informs her.

“So?”

“It’s _very_ expensive, Miss.” And something about the way he says that makes Rey’s blood boil, even if her ears latch on to that awful word that makes her want to cower away.

_Expensive…_ she ponders, trying to gauge what that would mean in a more galactic economy than the one she was used to on Jakku. Even so, despite her instinctual alarm, she schools her face into an indifferent mask and carries on, “How much?” She’s not too worried about the price anyway, with how much she and Ben have left from his shuttle, but she just hopes it’s not… 

“4,380,” the jeweler responds flatly.

_Damn…_ That’s well over half what the 22-B Nightfalcon she’s had her eye on costs. Though she’s surprised to discover the choice she makes is all but effortless as she snaps, blaming her shortness of speech on her lack of sleep as the old man jolts a little where he stands, “I’ll take it.” 

And truly, what is a speeder compared to Ben? Compared to making something he’s wanted come true, whether he denies it or not. And he does, reluctant to even broach the subject of marriage with her anymore, keeping his thoughts of longing for it secluded to when he thinks she won’t be able to catch wind of them. It would almost be amusing if she didn’t find it so sad that he thinks himself unworthy of even asking her.

She could kick herself for not thinking of ‘proposing’ sooner… 

————

Rey can’t help but wring her hands. She’s never been one to succumb to such a nervous gesture, but then again, she’s never been _this_ kind of nervous before.

And for what?

It’s not as if she’s unaware that Ben wants exactly what it is she’s about to ask for. She wants it too, pondered all the things _marriage_ could entail or if anything would even change at all, curious to know the inner workings of such a commitment.

There’s also a part of her that can’t help but wonder what Finn would think of her decision, or Chewie, or _Leia_ … But she silences those thoughts as soon as they come lest she loses her nerve. Which, now that she’s on their freighter and can feel the pull of Ben’s Force signature, doesn’t seem such a difficult thing to do.

It’s not that she thinks he’ll turn her down, — she’s quite certain he won’t — she’s afraid she won’t do something right. Even with her limited knowledge on the subject of marriage, she’s aware that there are traditions in place for reasons beyond her understanding. What if she accidentally insults him? Not something she would find herself worrying about on any other day, but _stars_ if she isn’t sleep-deprived and restless.

_Anything_ could go wrong if she thinks about it long enough. So she decides thinking isn’t her best option, letting her feet move her forward while blind confidence swells within her. _I can do this,_ she encourages herself. _Force knows how many other people in the galaxy do this in a day…_

She finds him in their room, sitting comfortably atop the rightmost, corner bunk of the cabin with a bookchip he’d purchased a couple of days ago in hand. The ends of his hair are curling and damp, likely from having recently gotten out of the ‘fresher, as his attention shifts from his novel to Rey.

“You’re back later than usual,” he observes, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips. 

“Sorry,” she offers, “I got a little hung up.” And even though she’s deflecting a bit, prolonging this interaction, her explanation is truthful. She’d had to wait for the ring she’d selected to be resized according to her probably less than accurate estimation regarding the diameter of Ben’s ‘ring finger’, as the old clerk had called it. _Maker, please let it fit…_ “I had to give my boss a form of ID,” she continues, even if _that_ hadn’t taken very much time out of her day at all.

Ben goes pale. “Did they—”

“No, no, no,” Rey cuts him off before he can get his question out, the over-padded, leather ring box practically burning a hole in her back pocket with anticipation. “Nothing happened. Nobody suspected anything. I just got a little…spooked,” she chuckles at using Gorora’s word for her less than ideal reaction to the ID situation, “but she was kind to me, my boss. It didn’t take too long to get everything sorted out.”

“I thought your boss was a man,” Ben remarks and Rey snorts.

“Officially, I think Dalo is. But I met the owner of the garage today…”

His mouth forms that endearing ‘o’ shape she’s become so familiar with in the past month and her stomach swoops. She has to take a recentering breath. _I can do this…_ “Will you close your eyes?” she asks, careful to keep her intention guarded from their bond.

“What for?” Despite his query, there’s intrigue in his gaze.

“Can’t tell you.” Rey simpers. “That would ruin my plans…”

“What plans?” She glowers good-naturedly at him. “Right, okay, they’re closed,” he grumbles, raising his hands in submission and pinching his eyes shut.

She takes another breath, stepping forward lightly so the durasteel flooring doesn’t creak beneath her feet. His arms are still held up in their awkward, ninety-degree position so she grasps his wrists, drawing them to her and pressing her lips to his curling knuckles. He shudders at the touch and Rey sets his right hand atop his knee, keeping a kiss against the backs of his left’s fingers while her stomach continues to flutter.

Silently, reaching around her side, Rey pulls the ring box out from her pocket and opens it with a careful push of her thumb and a click. _Almost there…_

She watches Ben quirk a brow at the small noise and is suddenly overwhelmed with the realization of how much he must trust her to sit there, unmoving and blind while she works up her courage, not the least bit uncomfortable by how long she’s taking or her lack of explanation.

“I love you,” she finds herself saying, affection taking over her tongue at the sight of him so peaceful before her. He blushes, grinning boyishly as his eyelids begin to lift. “No,” she murmurs, clutching his hand tighter in a soft warning. “Not yet…”

He obliges her, expression neutral once more as she studies his fingers, counting them. Third in from the thumb. That’s where Gorora wore her gold band, where the jeweler had said to put it. The ring finger.

Slowly, so as to not hurt him, — however unlikely that would be in this case scenario — Rey slides the sapphire adorned ring onto Ben’s finger. It’s a tad loose, but it fits. It _fits_ … 

His eyes fly open. “What?” He pulls his hand from her grasp, inspecting the cool band, gaze flitting between her and the ring. “Wha— What is this?” he stutters, blush spreading to his ears.

“It’s a promise ring,” she states, worrying her ’proposal’ hadn’t made that clear enough. “So we’re…married now, right? Like you wanted. I guess I didn’t really ask, but…”

A strangled groan escapes from Ben’s throat and he hangs his head, shoulders trembling. Rey feels all her blood drain to her feet.

“Did you not—” Had she misunderstood his thoughts? “Do you not want this?”

He flips his head up, hair flying every which way as his eyes shine, red-rimmed and leaking. “Rey, Rey, no…” There’s a tearful laugh in his voice. “We’re not married yet, you just—” A sob racks through him. “Did you just ask to be, though? You…you want to marry _me_?” 

“Why…wouldn’t I? I’m with you,” she explains, tamping down the remaining alarm in her system. “Who else would I marry but _you_?”

And Ben’s smile spreads so wide it seems it could split his face. His cheeks, his ears, his nose and lips and neck are all flushed red as he somehow manages to laugh and cry at the same time, salt tracks spilling over his face and soaking the dark collar of his shirt. “I wanted to ask you,” he says between shaky breaths. “I did. I kept trying to plan for it, but I— I’m not—”

Rey kisses him, raising his chin towards her swiftly and silencing his doubts with her lips and her tongue and her teeth, all while he gasps into her mouth. “You’re perfect,” she whispers against his breath. “You’re so perfect for me…”

He whines, high and soft, and Rey can’t help but smirk at drawing such a small sound from such a large man, so she continues before he can offer any protests to her declaration, “There’s nobody else for me. Just you, _only_ you.” His entire body shivers, his skin like electricity beneath her fingertips, egging her on. “I don’t _want_ anybody but you…”

_“I know…”_ His voice floats across their bond, strained and desperate as leans back under her embrace. “I know,” he repeats aloud. “I’m just…not used to knowing. From anyone, I suppose. But I know with you.” He snickers. “You don’t give me a choice…”

She can’t help but laugh at the trueness of his statement, realizing errantly that she’s somehow deposited herself into his lap. “At least you believe me now,” she hums, kissing his forehead.

“I do,” he hums in return, tears still overflowing. “I do, I do, I do…”

And Rey notices the hardness growing beneath her core, hands moving on their own accord to unfasten the top of his pants while he squirms anxiously under her touch. “I love you,” she says again, freeing his semi-hard cock and pumping him. His head falls back against the wall, lips parted and pouting. “You know that, tell me you do.” He nods, hair falling in his eyes as his breathing catches. “Please, Ben…”

“You love me,” he moans and Rey surges forward, capturing the curve of his mouth with her own, free hand holding fast to the nape of his neck.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I do.” She pumps him once, twice more, then leans back, memorizing the want in his eyes, the tears staining his skin. Then, tugging on the collar of her coveralls, “Help me out of this thing…”

He jumps at her request, undoing the front fastenings with trembling, eager fingers and yanking the worn, blue fabric down over her shoulders. Removing her from the rest of her workwear is a bit of a to-do, but they manage well enough through a jumble of limbs and laughter, not even bothering with her undershirt in their self-imposed rush.

Rey thumbs haphazardly at her clit, knowing full well this isn’t going to be as drawn out of an affair as they usually try to make it; she can feel Ben’s desperation through the bond, rushing forward, seeping into her bones. So she works herself fast until he pushes her hand away, taking over for her as she lifts the slightest bit up on her knees, positioning him under her and sliding down his length. It’s not the easiest going, having not allowed herself time to properly loosen up, but Ben’s fingers are relentless until he’s hilted inside her and even after as she steadies herself, panting.

His lips rain over the skin of her neck and collarbones, unoccupied arm wrapped tight about her waist, and she can feel the cool press of his ring on her skin. It’s a soothing sensation amidst the warmth slowly overtaking her body, keeping her present and aware despite the ever-present tiredness working through her in tandem.

Regardless, she begins to move, arching her spine in search of friction when Ben’s hands latch on to her shoulders, holding her still. “Wait, wait,” he murmurs, a tremor still on the edge of his voice. “Let’s just— Let’s just stay like this for a little while…”

She eyes him suspiciously, sifting through the bond to locate the need she’d felt from him before. It’s still there, but perhaps it’s softer than she’d initially interpreted it, more longevity in its intention.

Peering down at him, his eyes have taken on a strange look of worry. As if he’s afraid to lose something. _Someone…_

He traces the pads of his fingers over her cheekbones, down her nose, staring at her as if the galaxy could very well revolve around her, held together and centered by her being. It’s as flattering a feeling as it is unnerving, especially as his mouth begins to twitch with unspoken words. The pattern of his thoughts ripping down a path of worship and praise and… 

…she doesn’t feel quite worthy of that at the moment.

So she asks before he can say anything, “How does one go about getting married?”

Thankfully her question cuts off his line of thinking without diminishing the smittenness in his eyes. Softly, shifting an inch or two under the press of her hips, he answers, “That depends on where you’re from. As far as _us_ , we’ll likely have to go a more document-based route. But…” His expression twists for a moment, a dull understanding flashing in his eyes before he shakes his head, burying his face in her neck again and sighing. “We’ll need a witness, which is probably a dangerous idea…” There’s a pause as he nips at her jawline and she allows herself to giggle. “We can work everything out later,” he rumbles, drawing her closer to his chest, tucking himself deeper into and around her body.

He doesn’t move for what Rey counts as close to four, full minutes, his breathing even as it gently prickles the skin of her neck. It’s a strange sensation to simply be seated on his cock without her hips arching or his driving forward, but it’s not unpleasant by any means.

There’s an effortless sort of warmth enveloping him in this position, as they are now, that she can glean timidly from the bond. And the apprehension of how distinctly _safe_ he feels just being inside her is…unexpected.

She wonders if it always feels this way for him, wonders if she offers sanctuary in more ways than just this— she’d like to believe it’s true.

Perhaps that’s why she whispers more praises into his hair as she had before, more assurances, “I love it when I wake up in the morning to your breath in my ear…”

He squeezes her tighter.

Perhaps she does it to fill the silence before he can do the same for her. She’d accept it all, of course, but she wouldn’t be able to agree in full. She’s a liar now, — a willing one, at that — endearments won’t do her conscience any good.

“I love the way you say my name like it’s something meaningful…” 

His lips press to her pulse point as his cock presses up into her attentively.

Perhaps it’s both.

“I love that shape your mouth makes when something surprises you…”

And he lifts his face so she can trace the outline of his lips, a hazy, contented look in his blown eyes. He edges his hips up again, just barely, hardly causing any friction, only warmth.

“I love how your fingers feel when you’re braiding my hair…”

He tucks a loose strand behind her ear and she imagines all the multitudes of Alderaanian styles he has yet to show her. The one he’d spent the better part of an hour perfecting after she’d gotten her job a little over two weeks ago had been so intricate, so specific it’s no wonder he isn’t as eager to share those traditions with her regularly. She suspects it might also have something to do with Leia, and on _that front_ she does not want to push him.

“I love how your fingers feel _everywhere_ ,” she decides to amend and he huffs, amused, as his hands work their way up and down her back. Massaging the knobs of her spine that are, perhaps, not quite as prominent as they once were.

It’s then — to Rey’s complete and utter horror — that she yawns.

She attempts to stifle it in the side of Ben’s neck but he notices all too easily, humming calmly and leaning back to catch her gaze, “We can stop now if you’re tired. It’s almost dark out, anyway.”

“But you’re—” She glances down solemnly at where they’re joined, trying to come up with an excuse to battle her drowsiness. All she manages is a wholly unconvincing, “I’m not tired…”

His head ticks to the side in a disbelieving gesture, the expression he adopts reminding her haltingly of Han— she winces before she can school her face back into stubbornness. “Rey,” he says low, almost chiding, “I know you haven’t been sleeping. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not _that_ unobservant…”

And she can’t help but groan at the expense of her failed act. He’s right. The most sleep she gets in a day is during her mid-shift break and that rarely, if ever, amounts to a full hour. But it’s the only time she feels safe shutting her eyes because she knows, at least, Ben will be awake. She can deal with the twisting turns and crowded traffic of the foreign city in her dreams as long as there’s no chance _he_ will see it.

She’s not entirely sure he would, should she allow herself a moment's rest alongside him, but the possibility lingers, what with how their dreams had interacted last time they weren’t communicating well.

But they are _now_ …

She told him about the clerk at Gorora’s garage, told him what she did to her. She was _honest_. The dream should be gone now if her theory is correct.

And yet… 

She hadn’t quite expressed just how much she’d enjoyed forcing her will upon another, had she? That sickly, sweet thrill of _control_. No. She couldn’t tell Ben about that. What would he think of her if he knew? He’d tell her she was no better than _Snoke_! And Rey… Rey would believe him wholeheartedly.

“I’ve been having bad dreams,” she mutters, shrugging noncommittally and hoping that sells her halfway-fib. “I didn’t want them to bother your sleep…”

Ben sighs, pulling her off of him delicately with a swallowed groan and scowling. “I say this with the most kindness I can offer you, Rey, but you’re getting up and walking around the ship in the middle of the night has been bothering me more.”

She curses under her breath, blood rushing to her cheeks as she repositions herself on the mattress beside him. “I thought I was being quiet enough, I’m sorry…”

“I’m not asking you to apologize,” he murmurs, setting his hand atop her knee and rubbing gently. “I just don’t want you getting sleep-deprived.”

“Well, I am,” she snaps, regretting her words the moment they fall from her lips.

But Ben only chuckles, kissing her shoulder and shaking his head. “I can tell…”

And that’s really all it takes for Rey to give in. “I think I’m gonna go take a shower…” she concedes nervously, nearly silent. “Then I’ll go to bed.”

“Do you want something to eat first?” he asks, caressing her back as she stands.

“No. I just— I just need some sleep. You’re right…”

He nods slowly as she leaves their crew cabin, making her way down the corridor to the ‘fresher with feet that seem to have finally realized just how much they’re aching.

She doesn’t spend too long under the warm spray of water, not wanting to fall asleep standing up as that doesn’t strike her as too far fetched of a possibility with how heavy her eyelids have become. Only drying herself off the necessary amount, she walks back towards the glow of Ben’s Force signature bare and — if she’s being brutally honest — stumbling across the freighter’s durasteel flooring. She practically falls against his back once she reaches their room, wrapping her damp arms around his middle while he undoes the bedding of their bunk and tugging him closer to her front; she can feel his laughter ripple through his chest.

“That was quick,” he snickers, twisting her around his form and lifting her up like a sack of Corellian potatoes before depositing her on the mattress.

“I haven’t slept in three weeks,” she grumbles, yanking on his forearm and pulling him down on top of her. “I’m _tired_ …”

“I know,” he whispers, raising up to look at her with concern as he brushes wet hair out of her face. “What kind of dreams have you been having?”

Rey stiffens underneath him, an uncomfortable and guilty heat rising in her neck and cheeks. “I, uh— It’s…it’s been the same dream…every time…”

Ben’s eyebrows shoot up in a second flat, his eyes screaming worry and betrayal. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I already said,” she pleads, “I didn’t want to bother you…”

He lets out something in between a scoff and a growl, flopping down beside her with an arm thrown over his face. “Wasn’t it you who begged me to talk to you even if I felt like I couldn’t?” he prods through a disgruntled breath.

“Yes, but,” she tries, groaning and running a hand over her weary eyes, “I’ve never had anyone to talk to about things like this…”

Ben levels her with an indignant glare and turns on his side, caging her against the wall with his body. “Another thing we have in common, hmm?” She rolls her eyes but snuggles closer to him all the same. He seems appeased enough by the gesture and cards a hand through her hair, resting his chin at the crown of her head. “If you don’t want to tell me that’s fine, but don’t let it stop you from sleeping. That’s absurd.”

“You’re absurd,” she mumbles stubbornly and pinches his side.

But he only laughs, tucking a leg over her backside and pulling her closer against him, wrapping himself around her like a great, big bloody blanket. Though, she can’t deny the comfort of being cocooned in such a way, the gnawing fear of her recurring dream seeming distant and powerless when compared to the warmth of his arms. And before long, she actually feels the recent stranger of sleep settling over her. That is, until Ben observes, low and pleased, “It’s blue…”

“What?” she sighs, peering up at him through eyes she can barely keep open.

“The ring,” he clarifies, repositioning his left hand between their bodies and smiling wetly, she thinks. “You picked out a blue ring…”

“Well, yeah,” she says around a yawn. “It’s your favorite…”

He hums shakily, knuckles brushing over her cheekbones as he whispers, “Go to sleep, Rey.”

And, to the steady rhythm of her love’s heartbeat, she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm measuring time for this fic using the Star Wars galactic calendar. Meaning weeks are five days, and months are seven weeks, and years are ten months, and so on and so on...
> 
> Where the story leaves off with the Resistance in this chapter, it's been between six and seven weeks since the _Supremacy_ got snapped like a kit-kat bar. For Ben and Rey, it's been about eight weeks even.
> 
> Crossing my fingers that's not confusing, I love you, and I hope you enjoyed! <333


	19. You Remind Me Of Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben makes some peace with his past. Hux is out here being an ass yet again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter I cried while writing, (and they were very much _not_ good tears) so be warned!
> 
> CW:  
> Mention of past character death (you knew we'd get here at some point...)  
> Retching (very brief)
> 
> Disclaimer: If it is not _glaringly_ obvious by the end of this chapter that Han Solo is my favorite Star Wars character OF ALL TIME then I did not do my job right!

The first thing Ben notices after drifting off to sleep — Rey’s warm body in his arms giving way to the strange lucidity of dreams — is that his hands are restrained, feet, too. Cool metal digging into his skin, cutting off the circulation there _just_ enough for it to be tolerable, though far from pleasant.

He’s cold, his clothing seemingly too lightweight and thin for the recycled chill in the air.

And his head is _pounding_. A pulsing seed sprouting in the back of his mind, unfurling through his system like a foreign drug; his fingers twitching and his skin stretched too tight for this new instinct ripping through him.

It’s then that the room comes into focus, light and dark all at once. Black metal walls, white lights tinted red, the fluxing presence of another sentient being nearby. One glance down tells him that his clothes are not his own— wispy beige linens and frayed arm wraps he remembers all too well. His body, oddly enough, is the same, though it _feels_ gangly and light. He pinches his eyes shut.

He knows exactly where he is, this memory, this _dream_ , knows exactly what just occurred here.

_Starkiller_ … Not too long after his and Rey’s minds collided, if the ache in his skull is any indication.

Had he truly hurt her _this much_? He knows he hadn’t been the gentlest but he’d attempted to tread lightly enough through her memories when searching for…for _the map_.

_But she hadn’t wanted you there,_ he chastens himself. _She’d resisted…_ That leaves a deeper wound. A wound he, too, felt after she broke through his own defenses.

How long had she sat confined here after their interaction, in the blinding, sterile glare of her cell, before… 

“You will remove these restraints. And leave this cell, with the door open,” Ben finds himself saying, entirely against his will yet, somehow, he’s not surprised to have said it.

There’s the faintest rustle of metal and betaplast behind him, then, “What did you say?”

He repeats himself tonelessly, a strange _will_ coursing through his blood as he does. How odd that the Force feels new to him here, like he’s a child again, coming into his abilities with fright and intrigue. It’s shameful that Rey had to experience something so momentous in such a dismal place as _Starkiller_. A fresh wave of guilt crashes over him.

“I’ll tighten those restraints,” the trooper standing guard threatens as he comes into view, “scavenger scum!”

It occurs to Ben with a gasp that he’s afraid, or at least, Rey had been in the moment; this stormtrooper could blast him on the spot and no one would be the wiser. He would die a pointless blip in the First Order’s records, a nobody prisoner with nothing to his name but the years he’d wasted away on the sands of Jakku.

He shakes his head, steeling himself and calming the thoughts that don’t belong to him. It’s alarmingly difficult to set the stream of his own mind apart from Rey’s memory, difficult to maintain his sense of self. Is this how she’d felt dreaming of his past?

With a steadying breath and a quell of the dangerously rampant Force within him, he drones for the third time, “You will remove these restraints. And leave this cell, with the door open.”

The trooper’s spine straightens in a rather droid-like motion and the Force _purrs_ with Ben’s success. His very bones vibrate as the white-clad soldier repeats and complies to his commands, releasing him from confinement without another bout of resistance and...and Ben had forgotten how good that felt.

Or perhaps it’s simply Rey experiencing the breadth of the Force’s ability for the first time, but truly, he can’t remember the last time he performed a Jedi mind trick without the influence of Snoke’s teachings tainting its execution. It had been so… _easy_. Effortless almost, filling another’s mind with his will and letting them do all the work for him. No rooting around, prying apart thoughts and straining to gather information like he had done to Rey in this very cell.

And yet, for all its simplicity and buzzing gratification, he can’t help feeling like a cheat for using the Force in such a way, odd considering the direness of Rey’s memory in this situation. Though, before he can fully explore whether his reaction is purely his own, words tumble from his mouth in a rush that he took no part in thinking up, “And you’ll drop your weapon!”

“Aaand I’ll drop my weapon,” the dissonant voice of the stormtrooper affirms as the dull clank of metal against metal fills the room.

Ben hadn’t even realized the guard was leaving, but he supposes his actions — or Rey’s — are solely reliant on the events of this dream-memory he’s been thrown into.

He rubs away the soreness in his wrists, urgency and shame and delight swelling within him. _I’m free…_ he realizes, then shudders at the now apparent task of finding a way out of this altogether foreign and familiar place without being spotted or killed. His odds are slim, even if, in the back of _his own memory_ , he knows the exact route to take for an effective escape.

Nevertheless, nipping the discarded blaster from the floor, he dodges out of his opened cell and into the sprawling, black corridor attached to it with caution. It’s vacant for the time being, but he still opts to skirt closely along the dark, steel outline of the walls, making quick note of where he came from at every corner he turns, following no direction in particular other than where the new and bright tug in his chest leads him.

_She’s magnificent,_ he can’t help but think, experiencing firsthand the raw instinct and split-second-decision-making Rey’s thoughts operated with in this memory— what they likely operate with perpetually.

What he wouldn’t give to have a mind run so flawlessly by logic…

_Wait._

Taking stock of where he’s going, _fully_ examining his surroundings, Ben realizes he’s heading straight for a ledge — the primary Oscillator Hallway by the looks of it — and his stomach swoops. Surely, she couldn’t have escaped this way, she would’ve died. But his body gives no hesitation as he swings a leg over the metal and stone crevice edge, lowering himself down, holding onto the levers of droid-access-points with sweaty palms.

He begins wondering whether she just hung here until someone discovered her — how could she _not_ have been discovered, out in the open like this — when the narrow entryway he’s clinging to slides open and his body automatically crams itself inside. He shouldn’t be able to fit, but this is a dream, he supposes, physics have no dominion here.

He walks. Inches forward, really, unable to see where he’s going, feeling only along the cold walls to steady himself in the dark. He makes a right turn, then a left, then is pushed out and through to another access-point by an oncoming maintenance droid; he nearly loses his resolve then, but manages to reinsert himself and continue following that strange pull in his heart after the droid has gone about its business. He turns and turns and crawls and turns again, and it’s a wonder Rey ever got off this base to begin with. If it weren’t for her memory’s influence, he’s certain even _he_ would be lost at this point.

But his chest feels lighter with every step he takes. As if wherever he’s headed will be good and welcome. Safe. Perhaps it’s freedom that’s calling out to him now, that called out to _Rey_ , in actuality. Regardless, the feeling is heady and he can’t help but pine for it, his footsteps falling faster and his heart rate rising as he barrels towards the prospect of such _warmth_.

He hasn’t a clue how long he’s been walking. Not quite an hour, perhaps, but close.

His fingers and toes are starting to numb from the cold, blaster shaking within his uneasy grip.

Something possesses him — possessed _Rey_ — to make for the nearest access-point, back to the man-made cavern of the Oscillator Hallway. While his better judgment urges him to stay hidden within the droid passageways, the memory forces him to take the risk. And before he knows it he’s back within view of damn near anyone walking past, climbing up the frigid stone and metal wall; his calloused hands the only reason he doesn’t fall to his death in the whipping wind.

The muscles in his back and arms are terribly sore by the time he clears the ledge, but the adrenaline pumping through him does well to mitigate the discomfort. He doesn’t have time to roll out the aches, anyway. He has to get out, get to that bright burn of direction. And _fast_.

With fleeting steps, he angles himself against the nearest wall and resumes his search for an exit, moving quickly enough to placate his nerves but not so quick as to draw attention from a potential passerby.

He skirts into the corridor closest to the Hallway’s cavern-like egress, blaster at the ready and eyes peeled. But he’s stopped in his tracks.

Startled.

His gut turning, threatening to empty its scant contents.

Knees near-buckling. Hands shaking. Throat tightening.

None in accordance with Rey’s jubilated feelings playing out at the back of his mind. The sight of the Traitor, FN-2187, her _friend_ overwhelming any and all of her previous apprehension.

Not for Ben though.

He can’t take his eyes off of… 

“Are you all right?” Han Solo asks him, stepping forward with concern and care in his gaze.

_…Dad…_

“Yeah,” he tells his father automatically, what falls from his tongue entirely out of his control; but it couldn’t be any farther from the truth.

“Good,” Han nods and Ben wants to… Wants to _what_? Apologize to a memory? Like it would be anything other than a hollow grab at forgiveness?

Anger swells within him.

How dare his father walk freely about this base! How dare he plan a rescue mission so poorly! Was he unaware of how dangerous this place was? Anyone could have seen him! Captured him… _killed_ him… 

Acid rises in Ben’s throat.

The young man before him — Finn, he remembers Rey addressing him as — begins to speak; Ben thinks he might respond, but his focus is elsewhere. Even as Chewie’s growls temper into the conversation, which is another gut-punch in and of itself, even as he’s pulled into his first hug with someone other than Rey in who knows how long, he can’t take his eyes off of Han Solo. Alive. Cheeks flushed with cold. Blood pumping through his _living body_.

Ben is relieved Rey’s memory doesn’t allow him a full spectrum of reactions because he’s positive he would have vomited on Finn’s boots by now.

“How did you get away?” the young man asks him, his question affording Ben a moment of clarity as he realizes that _that_ is likely the reason he’s living this memory of Rey’s. Their bond doing all it can to unmuddle any strain between them, helping them understand one another better. She’d gotten out of her cell that same way she stole their freighter, the same way she acquired her job.

But Luke had always said the Force had a sense of humor. Why else would he be facing his father now? It’s a sick joke and he knows it.

His ire flares again. Though not at Han Solo’s foolhardy confidence and utter stupidity, but at himself. At his natural propensity to forever be the butt of the Force’s said jokes.

Of course, he had to be born from the Skywalker line, so he’d never know a moment of peace, always pursued, always held up to impossible expectations. Of course, he had to be _gifted_ , too gifted for his own good, so he had to be sent away. Of course, just when he’d convinced himself that his family cared none for him, his father had to return, begging him to come home, begging him to see reason. Of course, being of Skywalker blood, reason is something he’s never been the best at seeing.

It’s childish, he knows, to tally up the unfairness of his life. And there had been many an opportunity for him to better his situations, to make things right, but one would have to be blind to think he had much of a choice in the lot life threw him, regardless.

He was always destined for suffering. That’s all his family has ever known, it would seem.

_Kriff_ , he needs to punch something. If only he had his lightsaber. If only he had control of his body.

But then, like a sun burning through a grey sky, his father says something to him, his eyes bright and determined, and Ben— Ben can’t hear him. His ears rushing with blood, his mind racing with rage as his father begins to turn away. The dream tunneling, Han Solo walking on and on and on and _away_ down a long, narrow bridge…

A man shrouded in Darkness waiting at the end of it. A stranger. A bringer of death.

And it’s worse than his childhood, worse than wondering if his father would ever come home. He’s going for good this time. _All because of me…_

_Don’t go that way!_ he wants to shout, wants to plea, wants to reach out for his father’s diminishing form.

The deceptive warmth of the Dark is all that reaches back.

_Come back…_

It devours him, Han Solo is nothing but a speck of Light in the Dark.

_Come back! Please! I’m better now, I promise! I can be better!_

But his father is gone, and it’s no one’s fault but his own.

_Don’t go…_

Still, he begs.

_Dad…_

————

For all his distress within the dream, he wakes quietly. Unmoving. White-hot tears pouring over deathly cold skin.

He _feels_ dead.

Rey is still asleep beside him, long breaths measuring the rise and fall of her ribcage. He sighs, heart weighing too heavy for his chest. If he felt more in control of himself he’d get out of bed, move to the cockpit or another cabin so as to not wake her. But his bones are lead and his shivering is picking up again, whispers of _Starkiller Base_ ghosting over his skin despite the freighter’s warmth.

He’s convulsing.

He’s _sobbing_ …

He can’t sit up fast enough, curling in on himself in an attempt to dispel the knots forming in his stomach, the throbbing in his skull.

_I killed him,_ he muses darkly. _I killed him, I killed him, I killed him I killed him I killed him…_

And all his father had wanted was to bring him home, damn his past, damn the atrocities he’d already committed.

_“Come home. We miss you…”_

His face falls into his hands, muffling the labored sound of his breathing.

“I can’t go home,” he murmurs to himself. “You’re gone…”

And he waits.

As if Han Solo might decide to bend the laws of life and death just to speak to him, to tell him that he always could have gone home… Or tell him the opposite. Confirm what he’s always believed about himself. That, above anything, seems the most likely. “I’m sorry…”

The silence that follows is like a fog over his mind, thick and Dark and suffocating. Demanding the breath from his lungs, demanding any semblance of warmth he’s ever received in his cold, _cold_ life.

Until… 

A hand, small and soft and like every star that’s ever brightened the black of space, brushes against the small of his back, sending a plume of confusion and concern and _love_ up the bent ladder of his spine, thawing him from the inside out.

“What are you saying?” Rey’s voice engulfs his senses, raspy with sleep and puzzlement, her knuckles rolling soothingly into his skin.

“Bad dream,” he mumbles, surprised by the lack of hesitation in his response. He senses her own discomfort flare.

“Was it my fault?” Her question is hushed as though she had been afraid to ask it.

He shakes his head. “No.” _Not you. Never you. You’re good…_ “My fault,” he whispers.

Her right arm snakes around his waist, resting lightly over the tops of his thighs. It’s almost too comfortable of a gesture, too _warm_.

_Why do you love me?_ he allows himself to wonder, careful to keep the thought to himself, careful to keep the Dark of his dream from tainting her. _I’m a time bomb…_

“‘Your fault’ why?” she asks, her left arm joining her right wrapped around his middle as she tugs him closer in a drowsy, demanding motion. “You’re cold.”

“I— I don’t feel right, Rey,” his voice tremors despite his attempt to keep it steady. He’s tempted to ask her to let him be for a moment but he knows he’d be worse for it; her touch is always appallingly calming.

She shifts up his back, cheek rubbing against his shoulder blades. “Like you feel sick?”

“Not exactly…”

“Then what?” And she brushes the tangled mess of his hair out of his face so she can better see him, her gaze just as brilliant and inquisitive as usual. He wonders where she learned to be so caring. From everything he knows about her childhood, she couldn’t have had many opportunities to tend to another living thing. But then, he recalls a scrubby, withering red flower he’d seen once in her memories. On _Starkiller_ … How she would give the worthless little plant a scarce few drops of her already scarce water in the hopes that she could help it survive.

A violent wave of affection rips through him at the same time he’s reminded of how he’d extracted that memory. Where they were. What occurred after… 

The scrape of his father’s hand across his cheek. The rancid burn of flesh on the blade of his saber. The almost weightless fall of Han Solo’s body into the core of _Starkiller Base_.

He pitches forward, retching over the edge of the bunk. Nothing comes up, just the sharp burn of acid coating his throat.

Rey’s out of bed in two seconds flat, barrelling out of their room with a purpose as he wipes the stinging moisture from his eyes. She comes back with a wet rag and an expression so open and ready to help he could start crying all over again.

“Here,” she whispers, offering him the warm cloth and settling down beside him on the mattress, stroking his back rhythmically. Up and down, up and down… 

He wipes the rag over his face, breathing in the wet heat of it, letting it burn his nostrils a bit just to focus on something that isn’t the churning in his stomach. It’s almost too hot against his icy skin.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Rey prods easily, not unused to being awoken by his nightmares it would seem. He considers apologizing for having them so often, but rather lowers his head into her lap, hugging her a-little-bit-less-knobby knees to his chest and sighing. She pets his hair back, patient as he debates what to say to her, if anything at all.

Eventually, though, he mutters into the skin of her thighs, “I was you… In my dream.”

Her hand stops it’s combing for a near-imperceptible amount of time before she lets slip a stunted ‘oh’ and carries on.

“I was— I was on _Starkiller_. When you got out of your cell and…” He swallows a surge of bile, burrowing deeper into her lap as if the motion could harden his nerve. Instead, his eyes catch on the blue glint of his promise ring in the hazy light of the glow panels, the mere sight of the band causing his heart to flutter. _She loves you,_ he tells himself, courage burgeoning once more, _she asked you to marry her…_

“And I saw my dad…” he forces out with a winded breath.

Unlike what he would expect, Rey does nothing. Her nails don’t stop their gentle scrape across his scalp. Her skin doesn’t prickle and her pulse doesn’t quicken. She is the prime example of grace under stress. His heart swells, but so does his anxiousness. Why _isn’t_ she reacting?

“Rey?” he tries, contemplating whether she would be angry with him if he listened in on her thoughts.

“Mm,” is all he gets in response before she places a hand against his forehead and a vision passes through her fingertips and into his mind.

It’s a city. Not a single horizon line visible through the metropolis. Crowded and ever-sprawling and like nothing he’s ever seen before. Except… There’s something familiar about it in a hodge-podge sort of way. Those silver, domed roofs look quite a bit like the capitol building of Hanna city, and that bannered plaza like the opera house he remembers his mother taking him to from time to time. And over there, he’d be remiss not to notice the similarity those squat buildings share with holos his uncle had shown him once of Tosche Station on his homeworld of Tatooine. And those factories and shipyards might as well be identical to those of Corellia City, where the Empire used to acquire a great deal of its flagship parts. And he even catches sight of oxidized roofs and stone archways he recognizes immediately as portions of Theed dappled into the scene. There also exist great silver and white and blush skyscrapers that he can’t place accurately but _feels_ as though remembers.

As he observes, the graveled voice of Lor San Tekka breaks it way out from the deep of his memories, rushing to the forefront of his mind to repeat, as cryptically as ever, _“…where you come from…”_

He shakes his head, dispelling the vision and looking up at Rey in question. She looks right back, resolute and curious. “It’s just like last time,” she says after a beat. “Only I didn’t see you in this dream. I should have, don’t you think. I’m ready to tell you all of it…”

“All of what?” he asks, reeling slightly from the amalgamation of ideas and questions forming in his brain.

“That I liked it,” she says flatly, her face like hardened gold. “Getting into that girl’s head, tampering with her memory. That I liked stealing this freighter and tricking that stormtrooper you probably just dreamt about…”

He nods dully, not entirely sure what she wants him to say other than, perhaps, that she’s a wretched human being who deserves his disgust or…whatever else… She doesn’t, of course. Even if her actions are far from admirable, she’s nothing compared to _him_.

His silence must aggravate her because she prods impatiently after he goes too long without responding, “Doesn’t that bother you?”

He laughs humorlessly. “Considering I just dreamt of my father, whom I _murdered_ ,” he waits for her expression to pinch or her breathing to stutter but it never happens, so he finishes curtly, “no, not really.”

Rey holds her own for another minute or two, her visage relaying precisely how adamant she is in regard to her own ‘horribleness’, but eventually, she caves with a groan. Palm scraping over her tired eyes as she concedes, “You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry.” She flops back onto the thin mattress, then, heaving a great sigh and muttering to herself, “Perspective…”

He can’t help the smirk that tugs on the corner of his lips. If only she could see herself the way he sees her. But he knows she could very well feel the same way about him, so perhaps both their perceptions are skewed. That doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should.

“Rey,” he starts, crawling up her body and wrapping himself around her, deciding she needs the affirmation whether she wants it or not. “You’re not a bad person. You were doing what you needed to survive.” She makes to argue with him but he doesn’t let her, cutting her off before she can get a word out, “I _know_ , Rey. I just lived it. I know what you were thinking and feeling. I know that you enjoyed what you did just as much as you hated it…”

She’s still for a long time after that, thoughts swarming behind her eyes, face placid. Then, with dismay and steel painting her features, she asks coldly, “Did you enjoy killing your father?”

He feels, if he had been standing up, he might have needed to sit down. Not only due to the question, but to the near-unrecognizable look on Rey’s face, as well. Hostile and withdrawn. Not the Rey who had kissed his knuckles and slipped a promise ring on his finger a few short hours ago. Not the Rey who had cried for him and all his past misfortunes. Who had given an undeserving, dying flower water when she needed it for herself.

But as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. Replaced with remorse and shame. “I didn’t think so…” she murmurs, dropping her gaze and curling in on herself.

Goosebumps rise on her skin and a shiver racks through her. Ben runs a hand up and down her arm and her eyes return to him. As though she can’t fathom how he still stands to touch her. And if _this_ is how she feels watching him behave the same way towards himself — helpless and straining and hollow — he vows never to allow her that suffering again.

“You remind me of him sometimes,” she whispers, cutting the quiet, “your dad… The way you talk, a little bit. Your sense of humor. I guess…I didn’t know him for long, but— You’re very similar, I think.”

Ben knows there are tears straining at his eyelids but he blinks them away, determined to listen as she continues, “I didn’t want to notice at first. You know, after…what you did…to him…” He feels his eye twitch. “But it got difficult not to. And I used to think that was a bad thing, or, maybe just something I didn’t want to think about. But… It’s _nice_ that you’re alike. It means that he didn’t die in vain. He helped bring you back.” She smiles at him. It’s small, yet such a large gesture. “I think that’s what he wanted the most, looking back…”

Though his voice breaks, he manages a soft, “I know…” And he does, now more than ever. Now that he can’t tell his father how right he had been after all. “I thought, when I killed him, I wouldn’t want to go home anymore. That I’d stop thinking about my old life and who I was before. But all it did was remind me that I hadn’t changed, not really.” Rey swipes at his damp cheeks; he pretends not to notice. “I was still afraid to choose. Between who I was and who I had been _told_ I was. Snoke, he wanted me to be like my grandfather and— And that was who my mother was always comparing me to. Under her breath, when she thought I wasn’t listening. ‘He’s too much like _him_ …’ I didn’t even know who she was talking about at the time but I _hated_ him. And—”

“Wait.” Rey places a hand on his chest, stopping him. “When did you find out? That Vader was your grandfather, I mean.”

He winces, but answers, “Not until after I was with the Knights of Ren. Some Republic Senator leaked the information to the public and lost my mom her job.” He shrugs far too casually for the conversation they’re having. “I found out when the rest of the galaxy did.”

Rey looks… _affronted_. Her brows arched and her jaw hanging. “They— Your parents never told you?”

“They told me _Anakin Skywalker_ was my grandfather. They neglected to mention that he was also one of the galaxy’s most dangerous Sith Lords to date…”

She scoffs roughly. “And they still compared you to him? While you were _around_?”

“Well, not directly, at least. But, yes.”

Her eyes glaze over, then, as if a thought had stolen away every ounce of her attention. She works her jaw, thinking and thinking and _thinking_. Eventually, “Didn’t Luke help bring Vader back to the Light, though?”

A pit forms in Ben’s stomach again just when he thought it was beginning to settle. “If you believe him,” he grumbles. “That’s all mere speculation according to my mother.” Rey eyes him confusedly, so he expounds, “I don’t think she was particularly eager to forgive the man who took part in the destruction of her homeworld. No matter how much my uncle tried to convince her of his turn…”

“Ah.”

And, perhaps, because he truly is his father’s son, Ben can’t help the wry remark that passes through his lips, “Still sure you want to marry into this family?”

Rey smiles dimly at his valid, albeit a tad inappropriate joke, knowing exactly what his question pokes fun at. She’s not marrying into any family. It’s just them out here. Just _him_.

But his brashness doesn’t seem to deter her because she chuckles a bit herself, stroking his scarred cheek and mumbling, “If I’m with you, I already have a little family…”

He sputters, unprepared as ever for her ability to knock the wind right out of him. And, to his great surprise, he doesn’t weep or sniffle or fall apart at all. Something glowing and good fills his chest and he finds himself grinning, too, unashamed for the first time in as long as he can remember. “You remind me of him, too,” he tells her, sharing a secret he has no need of keeping anymore. “You know how to get me out of my head. He was always better at that than anybody else…”

“Better than Leia?” Rey asks, intrigued and a hair uncomfortable.

Ben sighs, his heart clenching, but it doesn’t stop him from explaining, “My mom… She was, _is_ a very domineering person. Not always in a bad way, but… I think she realized early on that I didn’t share that same attribute with her and— And she stopped trying to understand me.” Rey looks taken aback by his admission so he rushes to amend, “She still wanted what was best for me, but…after a while, I think she stopped believing she could give me _the best_. She lost confidence in her abilities as a mother, if she ever had any… My dad, though, he knew he wasn’t the best but he tried anyway…” He shrugs, eyeing Rey as she takes in his easy expression.

A softness befalls her visage and she whispers, “Were you shy?” Her cheeks burn pink at her own question.

“Terribly,” he rumbles, smirking at her, recalling all the hours he’d spent cooped up in his room as a child. Not because he was forced to, just because he liked the peace and quiet. When voices weren’t bouncing around in his head, that is.

“I wasn’t,” Rey reveals, her chin lifting in mock pride. “I think I would’ve been considered a little monster by most people’s standards…”

Ben pounces on her, then. “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he growls, nipping at her neck and pinning her to the dingy mattress playfully. She shrieks her amusement, cocooning him with her arms and legs and kissing his ear loudly, only adding more to the absurdity of this little moment.

He lifts his head, peering at her with suspicion and warmth alike. “You really want to marry me?” he asks again, just to be sure.

She sniggers, pecking the tip of his nose and assuring, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Her eyes twinkle gold and green in glow panels' light before she says, low and loving, “We balance each other out.”

————

Kuat is, in Supreme Leader Hux’s not so humble opinion, a rather detestable planet. Overpopulated and smoggy. Undecided on whether it wants to preserve it’s natural plant life or eradicate it altogether in the name of factorial advancement as it’s orbital shipyard array is, quite clearly, growing too cramped for the production the world needs to maintain in order to prosper. 

However, he is in no position to state such opinions as he is here to make a deal with the Kuat Drive Yards’ Supervisor in regard to ship production. Bribe him, really. There’s nothing people won’t do for the right price, Hux has found.

And bribery shouldn’t be too difficult a task considering the Supervisor — who has been showing Hux around the planet’s man-made, vessel production ring for two hours or more now — is not as concerned with monetary autonomy as the world’s previous rulers had once been. _''Credits are credits,"_ he’d told the Supreme Leader shortly after his arrival, _"hell if I care where they come from…"_

Hux is unsure as to what exactly spurred the shift of planetary power from an Aristocracy to a Technocracy, but he knows war changes a great number of ideals in people. And if Kuat’s population has decided to be more concerned with its technological outputs rather than its history and traditions, he has no qualms in taking advantage of that.

“How long does production for these usually take?” Hux asks the Supervisor, nodding down at the factory floor below them filled end to end with a dozen _Resurgent_ -class Star Destroyers in near-complete form. Technicians in grey and orange uniforms scurry about the hangar bay, testing repulsorlifts and pressurizing bridges.

“This batch has been in production for nearly three months now,” the older, formerly blue-collar man tells Hux, sniffing proudly at the sight before them.

“And how long if you were to half the size?” Hux sniffs in return.

“Half the size?” the Supervisor blanches, ruddy face going white.

“Of the ships, I mean,” Hux clarifies, not even sparing the older man a glance. “I understand these,” he nods downward again, “were already put into commission by Supreme Leader Snoke months ago, and you’ll get your pay for them, but I am currently in need of smaller vessels.”

The idea had been Major Peavey’s, in actuality, to better extend their grip out from the Core Worlds and Unknown Regions. Larger flagships were no longer necessary with nearly half of the First Order Navy gone. Why intimidate with size when that would only take more time. The smaller the ships, the more plentiful the firepower. The faster they can _spread_. Which is precisely what needs to be done while the search for Ren continues, perhaps even shortening it, in the end.

“But,” the Supervisor gazes down at his workforce, at the sheer grandness of the Star Destroyers, “that would be smaller than Imperial flagships, Your Grace.”

“I’m aware.”

“I— Well, I— I suppose two months. These _Resurgent_ -classes are still very technical designs, I’ll have you know.”

Hux feels his eye twitch, but he keeps his face neutral, beyond sure what he’s about to say will dispel any resistance this manufacturer has to his requests. “Get a dozen to me every month and I’ll triple your commission payment.”

The Supervisor’s brows nearly disappear into his thinning hairline, his eyes darkening at the mention of such a heightened sum of pay. “I— I’m not sure my crew can keep up with that time table, Supreme Leader,” he argues still, though without his previous fervor.

“Then extend their hours,” Hux suggests impatiently. “If they complain, threaten to fire them. It’s not as though there’s much else work around here…”

————

The negotiations were short after that, per Hux’s expectations, considering money is the key to all sorts of locked doors.

What he _hadn’t_ expected, upon returning to his office on board the Finalizer, was a comm message sent directly from the Knights of Ren’s transport. No vid or recording, just two words waiting in glowing Aurebesh on his desk holo: _**Tion Cluster**_

A swift holo search tells him the sector resides along the Perlemian Trade Route, which strikes Hux as odd considering that’s where a great deal of Corscanti trade takes place.

_Ren wouldn’t be so foolish…_

The Tion Cluster harbors only two star systems, Fial and Raxus, neither of which the Order has any hand in.

Hux sneers.

Surely the Knights couldn’t have located Ren and the girl so easily. Though he supposes it _has_ been a few weeks since they last made contact, and at least three since any of his bounty hunters have checked in.

And what was it that the Master had said? _…if he’s using the Shadow, there’s nowhere in the galaxy he’ll be able to hide from us…_

Perhaps the Force had its advantages, after all. Though not enough for Hux to celebrate them just yet.

He wastes no time in pulling up the comm codes of his five bounty hunters, relaying them each the same message the Knights of Ren had sent him. With any luck — though he doesn’t believe in such trivial things — one of them will get there before the Dark-siders have any chance of ruining his plans for Ren and the sand rat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this one made me exceedingly sad at times so I would work on chapter 20's Finn POV to cheer myself up and it's basically finished! Which means the next update should come a wee bit faster than usual if all goes to plan!
> 
> I hope you know I love you and I hope that you enjoyed! <3


	20. A Package Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Finn and Rey experience some bad feelings (about this).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> Canon typical violence and gore (blood)

Finn hasn’t a clue why he willingly asked for this.

It’s barely even light out and he’s already been awake for two hours. At _least_ … And it’s been that way for over three weeks now; he doesn't know how much more he can take.

Granted, he never got the chance to ‘sleep in’, per se, with the First Order, but he had reasons to be up ‘early’. Tasks to complete, training to attend. Here, with _Skywalker_ , all he does is sit cross-legged until his ass goes numb.

He’s aware he’s supposed to be clearing his head, searching his feelings, and that he should be grateful the old Jedi had decided to instruct him about the Force, but _stars_ , if he isn’t bored out of his mind… 

He’s beginning to understand what General Organa had meant when she said _“That’s not going to be a very pleasant experience”_ in response to his request regarding her twin, her face ashen and just this side of distraught.

But he’d plead his case nevertheless, attempting to convince her with, first and foremost: he still isn’t sure if he’s Force-sensitive and _“You, of all people, should be encouraging me to discover these things about myself, General…”_

Secondly: if he is, in fact, Force-sensitive, then he could offer up a greater amount of help when it comes to the recruitment, pickup missions everyone seems to be talking about lately. Stir crazy, he can attest to.

Thirdly: apart from the wooden and dry, propaganda holo messages General Organa has Skywalker recording whenever she can, _“If your brother’s training me, that’s less time you have to deal with him…”_

He’s fairly certain it was the latter that won her over in the end.

Now, though, he wonders whether he should have left the old Jedi to his solitary devices. But Skywalker isn’t always alone, he supposes; Finn’s seen him laughing and talking with Chewie and Antilles — a war hero he recognizes far more readily than Verlaine — a fair few times during mess. _Really_ laughing… 

And mess hall is another ordeal in and of itself.

Ukio’s Overleige, a somewhat unremarkable man named Tol dosLla with greying-brown hair and a peculiarly cut beard, had decided after their quarantine and a few days of deliberation to put up the scant Resistance in Sashasa’s capitol building. dosLla had claimed it was safer for the world's crops and better for the Rebels if they all kipped and trained in a distant, comfortable environment from the planet’s growing-fields. Which… _comfortable_ is an understatement because the political facilities look more like squat, ancient castles clustered together than anything militaristic. The dining hall alone reeks of affluence by its sheer size and geometric stone-working. And if it weren’t for the more industrial furniture and foodstuff equipment that had been placed in the oversized room for the Resistance’s stay, Finn would have been too uneasy to eat in such a lordly place.

Though he’s been told by Poe and Rose that Ukio’s decorum isn’t nearly as elaborate as some of the places they’ve seen. But Finn doesn’t care, he’s enamored just the same. Nearly as much as when he and Rose had ventured to Canto Bight what seems like a lifetime ago.

There are plenty of rooms for the Rebels to stay in, as well, considering most of dosLla’s elected officials and advisors had abandoned the planet over the course of its Imperial occupation. Only one to a room! Until more are recruited, of course.

Even still, Finn’s never had a _whole room_ to himself before. They’re smaller quarters, to be sure, a bit dusty with disuse but the same blocky, ornate stonework from the dining hall is inlaid within the walls and his cot is acceptably sized and warm. So he can’t really ask for anything more, can he?

Except that he has to wake up well before dawn to go ‘meditate’ with Skywalker… 

It’s not always awful, up on the roof where they ‘train’. He gets a good view of the sunrise somedays, others he’s so drowsy he falls asleep where he sits. To which Luke usually responds with a disgruntled yet understanding look.

Finn’s still unsure as to how exactly Skywalker took to his request to train under him; he’d simply asked Leia and the rest fell into place. The older man singling Finn out a day or two after his conversation with the General while he was helping Threepio organize sleep and dining schedules for the Rebels. Offering only a gruff _“Tomorrow morning. 0400. Meet me on the lodgings roof.”_

So Finn was there on time, a little peeved but also a little eager.

A completely misguided emotion because he’s gotten _nowhere_ in the half-month he’s been working with Skywalker.

He sits. And he sits. And he sits.

Luke had once tried getting him to move a broken bit of branch with his mind— an absolutely _preposterous_ request. He did not succeed, oh, so _shockingly_ , and sat some more after that.

When he’d first started attending his ‘trainings’, he’d been the talk of the Resistance. Rebels he’d only spoken to once or not at all coming up to him, asking what it was like to be Force-sensitive, what Skywalker was teaching him. But once it became obvious to _everyone_ that he likely wasn’t all they'd imagined him up to be, he’d gone back to just being the ‘Defector’. Which he supposes is still quite a lofty title in terms of the Resistance, but it would be _nice_ to be useful for more than just insider First Order information. More than nice, actually.

Poe teases him ceaselessly, though, which lightens his mood from time to time. Poking and prodding, wanting to know whether he’s ‘lifted any big rocks today’ after Finn told him about the lackluster branch fiasco.

Rose takes his time with Skywalker much more seriously, always making sure he turns in early so he’s not so dog-tired in the morning, always asking impossible questions like whether he thinks he’d have more luck if they tried recreated some of the events where he’d had _a feeling_. He turns her down every time, not wanting to push for something that he’s not even certain exists within him.

He wouldn't be surprised if he didn’t have the Force, after all. Leia herself had seemed unprepared for what had happened back on Ajan Kloss, and Luke has yet to make any comments of substance expressing his opinion on the matter. And Finn’s done nothing since Verlaine came to their aid to solidify his unlikely theory. So maybe he really is just… _ordinary_.

Maybe that’s okay.

Maybe it’s not.

He’s still unsure of what he wants to be true about himself.

“Your mind is wandering,” Skywalker murmurs, and Finn flicks his head up. He always forgets Jedi can… _do that_. Hear people’s thoughts, or sense them, or whatever it is they do.

“Sorry,” he huffs, straightening his back and taking a deep breath. But he feels Skywalker’s eyes on him even after he closes his own, so he peeks at the older man trepidatiously.

“You’re discouraged,” Luke observes, a strange wistfulness dancing briefly over his face.

“Ya think?” Finn snaps, but the older man only snorts.

Nodding slowly, Skywalker seems to weigh options Finn is not privy to, looking for all the galaxy like a man about to make a life-changing decision. “My sister…” he whispers low and careful. “When she explained what you asked of me, she told me to, and I quote, ‘not fuck this one up’.”

Finn’s eyes round at the brash words he never would have expected Leia to use on her twin, but he chuckles nervously just the same, eyeing Skywalker warily.

With a great, heaving sigh, Luke says louder now, more confident than before, “I feel discouraged, too. I want to go about your training the right way, Finn, see where you are and start from there. But I’m _nervous_ …” He pushes a strand of disheveled hair off his forehead, leaning back where he sits and gazing up at the lightening sky. “I’ve let Leia down twice now with students she’s sent me and I don’t want to go for a third. So forgive me if this,” he gestures around and between them, “goes a bit slower than you’d expected it to. I need to make sure we’re _both_ mentally ready before I start you on anything more difficult.”

_Oh._ He hadn’t thought of that.

“So…it’s not me?” Finn asks, letting hope swell in him that he’s not entirely a lost cause.

“No,” Skywalker assures him, shaking his head. “Though you’re not as open as I would have expected someone asking for training would be…” A wry glint twinkles in the older man’s eyes as a barely-there smirk ticks up the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah…” Finn scratches sheepishly behind his ear. “Sorry ‘bout that. I guess I just don’t know what you mean by ‘clear your head’.”

“What do you think it means?” Luke asks, his usual crypticism returning.

Finn scoffs, throwing an exasperated hand in the air. “Hell if I know! I had to have a clear head during target practice with the First Order, but I doubt that’s the same ‘cause it hasn’t been working!”

“No,” is all his outburst gets out of the old Jedi.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for!” he shouts again, already tired of this roundabout conversation.

“What did I tell you to look for?” Luke shoots back calmly, but his own stress is evident in the draw of his face.

And Finn thinks back on his first lesson, trying to recall what little they’d gone over through the haze of weeks past. _“The Force exists in everything,”_ Skywalker had told him after instructing him to close his eyes. _“It holds the Universe together, the good and the bad. That’s where it resides, between all things. A balance…”_

“I’m looking for balance,” Finn answers, watching his instructor nod with something almost like pride.

“Right, balance. Try to find it in the small things.” Finn must look confused because Skywalker elaborates, “Like the grain and the wind.” He points down past the ledge of the roof towards the growing-fields below them. “Small,” he repeats.

So Finn closes his eyes and imagines Ukio’s golden stalks swaying in the breeze, imagines some invisible power existing within them. And, for whatever reason, it’s not so difficult to imagine that power existing within himself, too, when he thinks about it that way. If the Force can be so vast and yet so _small_ , then it sure as hell can be with him, regardless of his doubts.

“Good,” Luke compliments, clearly sensing _something_ in him. “That’s a start.”

————

They spend the next three weeks talking about marriage.

Not anything particularly serious. Ben explains the traditions from his homeworld, some of what he remembers Leia telling him about Alderaan, but mostly they just joke about it.

When he’d told her that women generally choose to wear gowns or more formal attire for their ‘ceremonies’, Rey had wrinkled her nose at the absurdity; a good ten minutes of ribbing from Ben had followed.

_“It’s just a skirt, Rey, it won’t kill you…”_

_“I certainly wouldn’t care if you wanted to marry me in your coveralls. Just without the oil stains, though…”_

_“Maybe if we found you a dress made of sackcloth. That’s durable enough for you, right?”_

But he’d shut up quite promptly after she suggested he should be the one wearing a gown. _“You_ were _in a dress the first time we met, after all,”_ she’d told him, which earned her about a half-hour of blushing ears and pouting.

They do also consider the challenge in that they’ll need a witness to make their ‘union’ official; another marital detail that perplexes her to no end. She asks why they can’t just _say_ they’re married and call it day, but Ben informs her that the basis of marriage in most galactic cultures is rooted in a lawful union, a remnant tradition from political arrangements and the like. She doesn’t really see what laws have to do with loving somebody, but she resigns herself to not understanding the finer quirks of the galaxy and simply going with it.

_If it’ll make Ben happy…_ she says to herself anytime they discuss a marital topic that doesn’t make clear and logical sense to her. Like _dresses_ …

Work at Gorora’s goes on relatively leisurely, as well. She’s no longer glancing over her shoulder or jumping at the utterance of her ‘name’. Ships she never fathomed having the chance to work on come and go from the garage: pocket cruisers she had assumed no longer existed, skippers, a _yacht_ and so much more. She has to pinch herself sometimes just to hurdle over her own internal thrill, pretending she’s not a star-struck scavenger whose childish dreams are laying themselves at her very feet.

Ben, vehicles galore, and a small semblance of friendship.

She wouldn’t call herself close to any of her coworkers, but she’s learned what she would specify as intimate things about them in the few weeks she’s worked at Gorora’s.

Dalo had been raised to fight on Iridonia but escaped in a foodstuff export crate as a teenager the day the second _Death Star_ was destroyed; ended up on Ord Mantell and hopped onto a refugee transport to the former capital of independent systems: Raxus.

ZyrRaa is Dalo’s adopted daughter. She has seven younger brothers and sisters, all adopted, too. Rey has to consistently stifle her surprise that that’s something people can do for abandoned children, but it only makes her appreciate her boss and his daughter all the more. Even if she doesn’t deserve the enjoyment of their presence; though there is a part of her now that’s learned not to be so self-pitying in regard to what she did to the young clerk. A _small_ part.

Her other lies are made passable, as well, as most of the other floor mechanics at the garage are Coruscant transplants that wanted to get away from the overly political city-life on the planet. Which Rey counts as a relief for the believability of the backstory she and Ben had conjured up for her.

Rey’s main grievance, she supposes, is that she doesn’t see much of Gorora after their meeting about her ‘missing ID’. But the older woman will sometimes offer her a reassuring smile in passing. Even so, there always exists the urge within her to tell Gorora that her proposal for Ben went well, that she _is_ getting married like a regular, everyday person. But she stills herself anytime her confidence spikes, opting to remain as anonymous as possible to her…friendly _acquaintances_.

There is a _another_ small part of her — with the daily reminder of kindly people at the garage — that longs for the ease of conversation she used to share with Finn and Chewie. Though she knows her estrangement from her companions and the rest of the Resistance is doing more to protect them than she ever could with a lightsaber in her hand, not with the targets likely still on her and Ben’s backs.

Not to mention she’s protecting Ben, too. His assumption that the Resistance wouldn’t take too kindly to his arrival is undoubtedly right, and she doesn’t know what she would do if he were to be separated from her.

So, yes, it’s better for _everyone_ if they remain unaware of each other’s whereabouts.

Which is a hard pill to swallow day in and day out. Especially with Raxus’ ever dropping temperatures as the thick of the planet’s winter unfolds, the cold causing her headspace to slow and sludge, to long for the warmth of _all_ those she cares about.

It’s something her coworkers seem to experience, too. Their eyes glassy and tired when they arrive at the garage and even as they leave, unwilling to venture back out into the biting chill.

And Rey attributes the acute sense that something unwelcome is approaching she’s been suffering since Ben’s nightmare weeks ago to the change in season, as well. Catching grumblings from fellow mechanics and people on the street alike that it’s sure to be a _harsh_ winter. And yet, there’s an eagerness in her, too, at getting the opportunity to experience weather so vastly different from her homeworld, trying to find the positive in all things.

_Always_ searching for the good…

“Those must be some fascinating flatcakes,” Ben remarks snidely, tapping her shin with his toe underneath their diner table and pulling her from her thoughts.

“Huh?” she tries dumbly while shaking her head, cutting into her breakfast and taking a bite. “Sorry,” she offers finally around a mouthful of batter and syrup.

Ben only chuckles at her. “You do that a lot,” he observes. “Float off into your own little galaxy…”

“How do you think I survived all those years on Jakku?” she teases, then realizes that statement was probably in bad taste.

He doesn’t seem to care, though, shrugging and returning to his smoked terrafin loin. _“Adult food”_ , as he’d called it weeks ago when they’d returned to their little diner for a second time, surprised by her opting to order flatcakes again. And every time after that, too.

She likes them and doesn’t care if there exist ‘better’ meals for her to partake in; they taste perfectly all right and leave her feeling full well into the afternoon, anyway.

The diner has become a frequent of theirs on the days that her shift at Gorora’s starts later, grabbing at any opportunity they can to do something together before they’re both on their own for an excruciating _six hours_.

“What time do you get off today, again?” Ben asks, a nervous twitch forming under his eye despite his attempts to remain nonchalant.

Rey eyes him conspiratorially. “1700,” she drawls. “Don’t you have my schedule memorized or something?”

He makes a ‘nothing of it’ face and squirms in his seat. “Just checking…”

“Sure,” she scoffs, not quite letting up yet, nudging his subconscious through the bond teasingly.

He snickers, ears burning crimson. “I have some errands to run,” he admits vaguely. “Want to be back at the ship before you are…”

_Ah._ She thinks she knows what this is all about, glancing down at his blue-banded finger. He’d mentioned getting her a promise ring, too. Not long after the dream he’d had of…Han… 

Rey banishes that train of thought, smiling up at Ben instead and imagining how proud his father would be of the risks he’s taken just to be sitting here with her now, in broad daylight, unashamed of himself. Confident and, at times, reluctantly soft. Just like his father.

“All right,” she finally sighs, keeping up her display of skepticism and wagging an overly dramatic finger at him, “but you better not be late.”

He grins boyishly at her, blush spreading to his cheeks as his eyes twinkle with something almost mischievous. “Wouldn’t dream of it…”

————

It’s a slow day at the garage. It’s been a slow _week_ , now that Rey thinks of it. Nobody wants to come out in the cold, she suspects; she certainly wouldn’t if she weren’t paid to do so.

Even with her favorite green jacket pulled over her coveralls, with the four large bay doors always left open for incoming vehicles, Rey is chilled to the bone, her fingers worse than numb as she tries to steady her hand within a JG-8 landspeeder’s busted steering vane. If she can finish rewiring and sealing the luxury vehicle’s console soon — given no more customers come barreling into the garage demanding service — she might be able to leave early if she asks Dalo. Two of the other floor mechanics called in ‘sick’, anyway, so Rey’s inclined to believe her boss is feeling lax due to the weather.

She’s making adequate progress on the JG-8 until she snags her knuckle on a jagged edge of the vane outlet. It’s not a totally uncommon injury with what she’s doing, but the cold air makes it sting all the more. She’s raising her bleeding hand to her mouth when that feeling of unwelcomeness she’s become so accustomed to brushing off in the past weeks comes whipping into the hangar on a crest of biting wind.

Rey turns, glaring at the nearest bay door as what looks suspiciously like a beaten-down gunship drifts slowly into the garage. The stabilizing fins that extend vertically from both the ship’s upper and lower hull begin to fold down as the pilot finishes it’s landing procedure, turrets that appear as though they haven’t been utilized in _years_ shudder and creak as the vessel finally touches down.

_Blast…_ she thinks to herself, feeling her shoulders droop in resignation to the early leave she’s definitely _not_ going to get, now. 

A quick glance around the garage tells her the remaining mechanics don’t want anything to do with the incoming customer if their tucked chins and avoiding eyes are any indication.

Rey groans inwardly, wiping up her bloodied knuckle as best she can and making her way towards the seemingly retired gunship with datapad in hand. Maybe Dalo will give her a raise for her commitment to service… _Probably not._

The woman who steps out of the old war vessel is rather long and lean, wrapped up in a thick, charcoal and tan coat that sinches uncomfortably around her ribcage. Her skin is an elegant shade of pale green and tasteful, black tattoos dust her high cheekbones. She looks for all the galaxy like someone who shouldn’t be piloting such a haggard vehicle. Like a politician or a socialite, all refined edges and harsh beauty that reminds Rey briefly of when she’d first seen Ben’s face.

The cell as cold as his features had been… 

“What can I do for you?” Rey asks the woman once she’s within earshot, ready to take note of whatever vehicular complaint her customer is about to relay to her on her datapad.

“Just a maintenance check, please,” the woman says stiffly, then smiles in the same fashion. It’s a tight and unnatural expression on her face, almost as if two invisible fingers had dug into the corners of her mouth and wrenched them upwards against her will.

Rey feels her own expression pinch at the sight but goes about doing her job regardless, asking for the woman’s identification and checking her in absently. “All right,” she sighs, tucking her datapad under her arm and pointing behind her. “Well, once I finish up with the speeder over there I’ll get started on yours. Should be done by closing. Front desk will comm you, then.”

The woman stares at her blankly for a moment. Or perhaps not blankly, but lingeringly. Thoughts clearly not on what’s occurring before her. Rey steps back hesitantly, hoping the movement will spur some response. Then, as suddenly as a glow panel flashing on, the woman smiles her unsettling smile once again and thanks Rey with forced enthusiasm. “Can’t wait,” she calls back mechanically over her shoulder as she strides out of the nearest bay door with all the grace of a protocol droid.

Rey blinks. That was… _odd_.

Her chest clenches in a subtle warning.

She’d like to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, — Ben can be awkward like that at times, hell, so can she — but there’s no ignoring the gentle tugging of the Force around her, just barely whispering that something is _wrong_.

Shaking her head, Rey sets down her datapad and returns to her work.

————

The next four days of Finn’s training are… _insightful_ , to say the least. Skywalker still has him working small, but his options are vaster now that he’s more sure of himself.

He searches for the balance between the morning dew and the moisture it leaves on his skin. The early chirp of avians against the careful breeze. The vibrations his body sends into the stone roof beneath him. How they all interact and balance one another.

And Skywalker must be comfortable enough with his progress so far because he’s taken to examining those old leather-bound, Jedi texts while Finn ‘meditates’.

He’s not entirely sure that’s what he’d call it, considering it takes a great deal of mental effort to find the balance Luke has instructed him about, but he always leaves training feeling more refreshed than he did going in. Which he counts as quite a positive contrast to the previous few weeks.

He’s kept his mild success private, though. Not wanting to raise spirits if it all turns out to be a fluke in the end. Yet he’s almost certain it won’t, now.

The budding sunlight and it’s dust particles are what’s stolen his mind this morning— imagining, _feeling_ the warmth that they share through the Force. Just a soft, little thrumming, echoed ever so slightly within and around him.

It’s funny, really, how he assumed the Force was some great, cosmic power. Which it can be, without any doubt in his mind, but it can also seem so insignificant all at once. Filling any space offered to it, no matter the mode.

He smiles lightly to himself, never expecting the modicum of peace his alleged abilities could afford him.

But then he frowns, an all too familiar and discomforting sensation buzzing at the nape of his neck in a sudden, lashing wave. He attempts pulling away from the feeling, not wanting it to disrupt his sorely earned focus, but it presses forward regardless. Weighing heavy over his thoughts, clouding his mind’s eye in swarming images. Images of _pain_ …

The sound of scraping metal pollutes his ears, the acrid scent of blood in his nose. And _screaming_. Shouts of injury, hissing and wailing surrounding him, suffocating him.

He writhes where he sits, wanting to extricate himself from whatever this is but unable to do so. That’s when he sees her. _Rey_. Blurred around the edges but clear enough for him to know. Her teeth are barred in effort and warning, fiery blue and white light illuminating her features in sick contrast. And then, just as his inner sight begins to sharpen and focus, she’s gone.

Finn throws his eyes open, gasping for breath as the sunlight pours through them blindingly.

Luke is watching him with intent, alarm written faintly over his rough features. As if he’d seen exactly what Finn had, or sensed it, at the very least. The old Jedi’s gaze is imploring and surprisingly eager, waiting for Finn to confirm what he’s likely already pieced together.

And, through a warbling, unsteady breath, shuddering around his words, Finn whispers, “I think Rey might be in trouble…” 

————

She makes a show of leaving Gorora’s that afternoon, waving at Dalo and her coworkers and even ZyrRaa, telling them she hopes they stay warm. It’s something she never does, her usual departure being nothing more than a friendly nod before she hurries out the door, so the looks of surprise throughout the garage are to be expected.

But she wants them to know she’s going, that she’s leaving on her _own_ , of her _own_ volition. Wants them to, maybe, watch as she makes her way out into the grey daylight of Raxulon’s spaceport.

The uneasy feeling that strange woman had given her earlier in her shift has yet to dissipate, made her already shaking hands rush through their work on the JG-8 and old gunship so she could leave just the slightest bit early— no more than an hour, really. But if she gets back to the ship and finds Ben is waiting for her, then everything will be righted.

It’s not that she’s unconfident in her abilities to defend herself should that be the case of this cold feeling in her chest, but if she has Ben, they’re together. _Better_ together. Her mind would be clearer, her instincts sharper in proximity to their bond.

Nothing, _no one_ , would be able to stop them.

Her feet, which had tapped lightly across the stone landing pads just moments ago, slam over the ground with abandon.

_He has to be back at the ship,_ her anxious mind assures her as she sprints. _He said he’d be back before me. He always is…_ Always waiting for her.

Rey has enough sense, at least, to slow her pace once she nears their freighter, not wanting to alarm Ben if he’s inside. Not wanting to give her position away if… 

She pauses, the toe of her boot breaching only the edge of the boarding ramp, and steadies her mind, reaching out through the ship with the Force. The kyber crystal in her saber hums in response to her searching and— 

_MY SABER!_

She doesn’t have her saber on her. 

It’s still where she leaves it every morning after she finishes sparring with Ben and heads out for work: tucked between the mattress and frame of the unused bunk opposite her and Ben’s. 

She stumbles back, repressing the urge to turn-tail without a mode of defense at her disposal and attempting for the life of her to _focus_. 

There’s someone on the ship, someone who _isn’t_ Ben. She can feel it, knew before she even reached out. But a section of her brain is screaming in denial, folding into the little pocket of safety she’s known here on Raxus and refusing to come out. 

No. 

_No, be optimistic…_ It might only be a thief. And that’s manageable, she’s dealt with thieves all her life. 

But then her memory drifts to Jakku, to Devi and Strunk who’d cheated her out of the spoils of a freighter not unlike the one she and Ben have now; a Ghtroc 690 rather than a 720. Ire flares in her chest, overshadowing the apprehension that had previously resided there. 

Like hell, she’s going to let someone take what’s hers. 

Rey barrels up the boarding ramp, fists clenching as she corrals the Force into her grasp, letting her anger cloud her judgment and caring little of the consequences. “I know you’re in there!” she bellows, element of surprise be damned. 

Nothing. 

Only the steady buzz of life near-tangible in the air. If she focuses, Rey can almost sense them breathing. 

She stops at the threshold of the airlock, scanning the quarter’s corridor with her eyes and the rest of the ship with the Force. A ‘hmph’ sounds from the rear of the loungeport, followed shortly by a dry voice Rey just barely recognizes, “Last I checked, empty escape pod ports were against the law…” 

Rey can practically see the stony features of the woman from the garage as she starts edging her way towards her and Ben’s room, keeping her steps light against the durasteel. “Last _I_ checked, so was boarding a ship that doesn’t belong to you,” she shoots back, throwing her voice to the other end of the hallway. 

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” the woman goads, and Rey feels her heart drop into her stomach. “I’m surprised Theed’s security didn’t shoot you out of the sky for this kind of high theft…” 

_She knows…_

She’s not just some common thief looking for an easy target. She’s here for _them_ … 

But Ben— Ben had said the First Order had no jurisdiction in this system. How could they have been found already? Their lives were just _starting_! 

Though, the woman didn’t look particularly First Order from what Rey recalls of her appearance. Maybe she’s not…maybe they’re safe… 

“I’ve been watching you and your little boyfriend for a while, now,” the woman calls out boredly, her droid-like footsteps sounding through the freighter as the last of Rey’s hope vanishes from her body. “The Supreme Leader wasn’t sure you’d still be traveling together, but I’m quite glad you are. Makes my job a lot easier…” 

That’s when Rey sprints, charging down the corridor towards the security of her lightsaber. She’s not even through the door when white-hot pain shoots into the back of her left calf and out the front, a throbbing fire like electricity rushing through the nerves in her leg as she topples to the floor. She swallows a scream, watching as a silver nano projectile no bigger around than her pinky finger clatters onto the durasteel beside her hip. A dimming, yellow light on its tip blinks with a dying tracking beacon through the smudges of her own blood. 

She crawls. Throwing her body into her and Ben’s crew cabin and slamming the door shut with the Force. There’s no lock and she can already hear the measured steps of the woman from the garage clacking down the corridor, but it’ll buy her enough time to get to her weapon, at least. 

Shoving her hand under one of the many dingy, old mattresses in the room, Rey rips out her saber and activates it in an instant, twisting her body around to face the entry, her front drowned in blue light. 

Then she tries to stand and— 

—and her leg is numb… 

Blood trickles hot down her shin, staining her pant leg and pooling in her boot. She has enough feeling in her hips to swing both legs up one at a time. Then the door slides open. 

The woman looks exactly the way Rey remembers, only her heavy coat has been dispelled and an amalgamation of vibro-knifes and compact blasters line the waistband of her trousers. Her forearms and thighs are banded by thin metal cuffs storing more of the nano projectiles she’d shot at Rey, those on her arms activated and flashing. 

“Now, I’m known for my cleanliness,” the woman explains patronizingly, stepping into the cabin and brandishing a small vibro-blade. “So if you could just hold out until your partner arrives…” 

Rey charges as best she can, swiping upwards clumsily with her saber as her left knee wobbles. The woman ducks away from her strike deftly, her blade ghosting over the back of Rey’s hand and singeing the fine hairs there. 

Both seethe, careening to opposite ends of the room and readopting defensive positions. 

Rey slams her left foot to the ground by its weight and the hinge of her hip, trying to regain feeling, clenching her teeth against the pain. 

“I was told you might have one of those,” the woman says, nodding at Rey’s saber before striking at it mechanically. “Don’t see too many anymore.” 

Rey parries easily, locking their blades and digging her right knee into the stomach of her opponent who hunches over at the contact, then slams her own knee down into Rey’s seeping wound in response. 

The edges of the room seem to blur for a moment as her gut churns coldly with nausea. 

“I’m not allowed to kill you, you know,” the woman pants, disengaging their blades and ramming her shoulder into Rey’s solar plexus, pinning her to the wall along with her swinging arm. “You or your boyfriend. Won’t get paid for half of a package deal…” 

“Then I suggest you cut your losses now,” Rey snarls despite the woman’s weight against her chest, “because I’m. Not. _Leaving_.” Her teeth find their mark heavy in the meat of her opponent’s shoulder, through fabric and skin, hot blood fills Rey’s mouth as the woman shrieks. 

She stumbles back, hand clutching at her fresh wound — weeping a thick, dark green — while a look of affront flashes in her black eyes. 

Rey twirls her saber, allowing a savage sort of pride to swell within her as her opponent struggles. On her good leg, — and with the aid of adrenaline, no doubt — she bounds across the small room, reveling in the terror pouring off of the woman before her as she raises her blade in offense. 

She’s held off only by the scant vibro-knife the woman is still clinging to, but she’s _pressing_. Edging her weight down against the small, buzzing blade. Teeth bared, tasting the blood that still stains them. 

She almost has her. One more little push and it’ll be plasma carving through pliant flesh. One more little push and it’ll be off with her arm. 

But all of Rey’s efforts are made null when the first of what feels like a thousand nano projectiles fire into her right oblique, knocking her back, saber falling from her grasp as she crashes to the floor. After the first few, the bright shocks of pain fade away, reduced by the numbing effect already working through her system. But then, the woman is standing over her, her aim more focused as she widens the range of her barrage, nanos zipping through the muscle of Rey’s flank with ease. 

And Rey can’t do anything but take it. Whatever it is that’s pumping through her bloodstream now is potent and _fast_. Adrenaline can’t dilute it, and her right side feels tingly and laden, despite the mutilation she can so clearly observe occurring there. 

The projectiles are shooting off so quickly, so _viscerally_ — their yellow light shining grotesquely in the eyes of the woman above her — Rey thinks she might just be able to make out the clouding shape of blood spray puffing through the air. 

_Her_ blood… 

And then, as abruptly as it began, the nano projectiles run out, the woman’s forearms and thighs suddenly devoid of their previous arsenal while Rey lies immobile on the cold durasteel floor. 

The air around her grows thick and time seems to slow. 

She can’t even feel the breath flowing in and out of her lungs, only aware that she must be breathing, otherwise, she’d be dead by now. 

The woman — her composure regained as if nothing of any importance had happened — leans over Rey’s downed form and unclasps her empty arm and leg bands, tossing them beside Rey’s head with a sneer. 

She says something, but Rey can’t hear her. Not for the numbness unfurling in her body, but for the warm call of connection overwhelming her senses and wrapping her up like she’s something cared for. 

And she is. Because he’s coming for her. He’s coming to help her, to protect her just as she protects him. He’s coming. 

He’s _here_. 

Ben… 

He strides into the room like a conqueror, the crackling red glow of his saber painting the walls, the floor, the ceiling in the light of a dying star. He always has it with him, tucked in the sturdy lining of his leather jacket should he ever need it. 

And Rey, though she can barely see him with her blearing eyes, knows exactly what he must look like now, his fury and fret rolling tangibly across their bond. 

He must look like everything he was trained to be. 

He must look like a _monster_. 

She can sense the woman’s terror flare once again at the sight of him and Rey smiles gloatingly to herself. She remembers that fear. From _Starkiller_. And remembers, too, how she’d sensed it in him as their sabers clashed in the snow, frightened that she was just as savage as he. 

And perhaps she is. Perhaps that’s _truly_ why they work so well together, above any other connection they share. 

But of one thing she’s certain. 

This woman whose heart Rey can feel beating so fast with fear it’s likely to burst. This woman who was sent to apprehend them and take them to their deaths. This woman who had the gall to disrupt their lives, their _peace_. 

She never stood a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, here we are. *stuffs my face in a pillow* *screams*
> 
> Time to start a prayer circle for Ben 'cos he's got some important decision making to do...
> 
> Anyway, you know what I'm going to say. I love you and I hope you enjoyed!


	21. Velanie Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is so much going on and I just don't have it in me to try and summarize all of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> canon-typical violence (light) and gore (blood)  
> vomit and vomit-adjacent
> 
> I hope you've all said your prayers for Ben since last time...

Finn hadn’t expected Skywalker to be a particularly fast runner, but then again, the day was already full of ‘unexpecteds’ as it was.

It had taken no more than a breath after Finn’s vision, after he’d voiced his concerns for Rey, for the old Jedi and himself to shoot up from their spots on the lodgings roof and make for the General with a _fury_.

————

He had been strolling through Raxulon’s downtown when he felt it. Enjoying the chill in the air, reminded of his childhood and the cool breeze that used to drift off the Silver Sea in Hanna City when night fell.

He had been worrying the cheap edges of a ring box when he felt it. Imagining the blush that would dust Rey’s cheekbones when she saw the promise ring he’d picked out for her. Nothing particularly expensive or illustrious, but something _her_. A clear resinite band with thin green leaves and deep pink petals inlaid that reminded him of the flower he’d once seen in her memories. A Velanie flower, the trade vendor had told him, known to represent gratitude and love.

He hadn’t been particularly eager to believe the old woman who’d sold him the bit of jewelry, but the sentiment was nice, regardless.

He’d been picturing their future — wondering if one day they’d leave their freighter to live in an apartment or a small lake house, perhaps, if due time would allow him to get a job, too, if they’d ever have a little family — when he felt it.

A muted, burning pain in the muscle of his left calf.

He’d shrugged it off at first, figuring he’d tweaked something while sparring and continuing his leisurely walk back to the ship.

But then his mind, his chest, heart, soul, _everything_ had constricted, zeroing in on a strain that was not his own. Rey’s Force signature blaring in determination and danger alike from their freighter.

He hadn’t instructed his feet to run, but they had anyway, stirring up alarm from Raxulon’s droids and citizens as he’d bolted towards the spaceport, lightsaber suddenly ripped from the lining of his jacket and ignited. Damn remaining inconspicuous… 

And, for whatever reason, he can’t remember the rest. Fright and rage consumed him until he was nothing more than a pair of limbs with a destination to reach, a Light to protect, an opponent to savage. 

————

There are four things going on at once in Leia Organa’s mind; her subconscious, really.

The first being how in the galaxy she’s going to manage coaxing her brother into being less of a bore in the recruitment holovids Dameron, Verlaine, Antilles and herself are currently looking over.

“These might as well be First Order propaganda,” she hears Dameron mutter beside her dismissively. A snort from Wedge follows soon after.

But Leia doesn’t respond due to her twin in question crashing through their bond with a vengeance, demanding to know where she is. That he needs to speak to her. _Urgently._

The third slot in her mind is readily filled with disgust at her brother’s ability to over dramatize _everything_.

The fourth, however, makes her reevaluate her disgruntlement as a signature in the Force she hasn’t recognized in well over a month comes flooding into her senses. Undulating and fraught with worry. Seethingly hot then unbearably cold. Tormented across lightyears. _Ben._

Her son… 

Her son is in danger.

Leia stands from the conference table in one of Sashasa’s many political deliberation rooms so abruptly her chair nearly topples over. Three sets of eyes flick in her direction.

“Leia?” Evaan implores, concern crinkling her golden brow.

“I need to speak with my brother,” the General blurts, stepping away from the table hesitantly, Luke’s pleas still floating about in the back of her mind.

Dameron, Verlaine, and Antilles all exchange a glance, but it’s the young Commander who speaks up, “It’s still morning,” Poe says, checking the chrono near the holovid on the table. “He should be training Finn.”

“Right,” Leia barks out more curtly than intended, her palms beginning to sweat with anticipation as she makes for the door. “Finish up without me,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Wait, Leia, what—” Evaan tries, but is promptly waved off as the door slides open before the General.

“We’ll probably have to refilm those,” Leia remarks, pointing to the holovid still playing behind her, “but try to fix as much as you can.”

No one else brooks an argument as she strides into the large stone hallway, the droning, recorded voice of her twin following her out with the scripted words, _“We all have something worth fighting for…”_

————

She finds her brother and Finn darting through the halls a floor below the conference room she’d been in, tacky with sweat and exasperation; she’s certain she’s not much better.

“You felt it, too,” Leia asks intently, closing the gap between herself and the two men, resting her palms atop their shoulders and catching her breath. She hadn’t walked far or particularly fast, but her lungs seem to be operating at only half capacity, her head pounding as the doubling feeling of her son’s anguish further worms itself into her subconscious.

“You saw her, General?” Finn rushes, ducking his head to catch her eyes. “You saw Rey?”

“Rey?” Leia blanches, shaking her head but allowing her concern for the young woman to flare, nonetheless. “I felt _Ben_. Something’s wrong.” She heaves a breath, pinching her eyes as another bout of pain rips through her mind. “I think he’s in danger.”

Much to her chagrin, Luke’s arm wraps about her back, steadying her as the three of them make their way through the arching stone halls. She attempts to keep her ever-present frustration with him at bay while he speaks. “Finn and I had the same sense about Rey. It’s likely they’re still together.” With an inelegant side glance at her, he asks low, “Do you need to go lay down?”

“Bah!” she scoffs, shoving out of her brother’s hold and latching her elbow with Finn’s instead, letting the younger man help support her weight. “We need to try and reach out to them, locate them if we can,” she supplies. “Where do you two train again?”

Luke huffs, crossing his arms in distaste for her petulant behavior while Finn answers calmly, albeit his uncertainty she can feel through the Force, “The lodgings roof. Next building over.”

“Take me there,” she orders, hoping beyond hope it’s not too late to find her son.

————

He spares the woman.

And he can’t say why he does so.

There’s fear in her cold eyes, not unlike that which he’s seen in so many other foes’— in his _father_...

The pulsing of her heart is frantic under the grasp of his palm at her windpipe. He doesn’t recall lifting her up, doesn’t recall why he hadn’t deigned to use the Force for such an act of strangulation. Yet she dangles within his hold nonetheless, gasping pathetically for breath, clawing at his forearm until his senses rush back to him and he looses her.

She crumples to the floor with a dull _thud_ , wheezes once, then faints rather undramatically for all her struggle.

Ben steps back shakily, the lightsaber he doesn’t remember deactivating clattering onto the durasteel.

There’s a pit in his chest. A cavity in the shape of his father and… 

…and he _can’t_.

He’s been the bringer of death one too many times in his life and now, when such a title could be considered useful, he can’t bring himself to expand upon it. He doesn’t want to be that man anymore. Doesn’t want to be that _lie_. The one Snoke whispered in his ear time and time again.

He can’t.

He _won’t_.

Not anymore… 

His gaze flicks down to the woman again, — some sort of Mirialan bounty hunter by the looks of her — her breathing shallow and labored even while unconscious, and takes another step away. Then another. And another. Trying to call forth what could have enraged him so swiftly, lost him to his better judgement. Then the ball of his foot comes down on something small and metallic that rolls out from under him on the floor. It’s silver, no larger than a caf bean, and stained with blood; dozens upon dozens of them scatter the crew cabin.

Everything rushes back to him.

The phantom burning in his calf.

The anger and insult and determination filtering through his bloodstream in a heady rush.

The need to survive, to win, to _conquer_.

_Rey…_

Her Force signature is so faint he’d almost… _forgotten_...what he’d come charging into their freighter for. As if she were… 

A whisper of a gasp puffs out beside his foot and he’s on the floor in less than a heartbeat, scooping Rey up into his arms in a regrettably indelicate motion.

The bounty hunter on the other side of the cabin can wait.

Rey’s eyes are glassy, her mouth slack and breathing shallow. She’s the color of old, bleached parchment.

He only notices her wound when blood begins to seep, hot and fresh, onto the front of his shirt. But the closer he inspects — tearing away her damaged leather jacket and sopping coveralls with abandon — the more his chest constricts.

He can’t begin to count the number of pocked holes tainting the ashen skin of her right side. Some of the wounds are so concentrated it looks as though a drill had been taken to her oblique, chunking out flesh and muscle and Force knows what else.

She groans dully. A labored, stifled sound. And Ben feels tears burn at the backs of his eyes.

_No. No, no, no no nonononono…_

“Rey,” he croaks, cupping her cheek and jostling her carefully. “Rey. Rey, wake up, please. Wake up.”

She’s alive, her breathing and Force signature attesting to that, but she feels muted on the other side of their bond. In shock. Far away. He can’t catch a single thread of thought from her end, not even the sensation of pain she must be experiencing.

So, so far away…

Clumsily, he presses a palm to her right side in an attempt to stop her bleeding, choking down on a sob as blood squelches through the seams of his fingers.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mutters, raising her torso up and touching his forehead to her cold one. “This is my fault. Please. Please, I’m sorry…”

Her ribs rise low and quick beneath the press of his hand, head lolling against his chest as another gasp escapes her. Two. Three. Then her lips move, wordless and lazy.

“Rey. Rey!” he shouts, lifting her higher, _pressing_ harder, a surge of hope rushing through him. “Rey, wake up, sweetheart. Please…” He doesn’t have time to analyze the endearment that falls straight from the lips of his father, too swept up in the unharried movement of her eyes on the ceiling above them, the Light swelling up and out of him.

Her pale mouth moves again, a word he can’t quite read.

There’s a rustle on the other side of the room, metal and fabric scraping against one another. Ben’s eyes dart to the downed bounty hunter, her shoulders twitching as she tries to lift herself up from the floor weakly.

A snarl rips through him as a simple tilt of his head sends her flying back into the wall, skull snapping against the durasteel and reinstating her unconsciousness.

Rey’s chest heaves under his hand, something not unlike a chuckle leaving her lungs. He turns back to her, finding her near-unfocused eyes as trained on him as they can be. When her lips part this time, he hears her clear as a shot from a blaster despite the hushed rasp of her voice. “Monster…”

He rears back, — though keeping his hold on her side as firm as possible — cold betrayal flooding his senses, some of it unintentionally seeping through his palm and into her sharply. She groans, back arching in what Ben can only assume is agony as blood seeps more heavily between his fingers.

“No!” he cries, curling forward once more and cradling her against him gently. “No, no, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

She strains for a moment more, then laughs. It’s a weak, unsettling noise, but it sounds almost proud of all things. “Monster,” she repeats with something like veneration, nosing idly at his collar. “My monster…”

He laughs then, too, disbelieving and self-deprecating. “I didn’t kill her,” he murmurs, tilting Rey’s head up so she’ll look at him again, stroking the fine hair at the back of her neck.

_“I would have…”_ Her voice filters through his mind in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of way, barely there at all. But it’s not lost on him that she’s trying to make a joke, and he chuckles with Dark affection.

“I know,” he whispers, kissing her sweat-damp hair and laying her back flat on the floor to examine her wounds more closely. They don’t seem to be penetrating anything vital upon his second look, but it’s the blood loss he’s most worried about. And it’s not as though he can keep pressure on her until the bleeding stops.

Unless…

“I’m going to fix you,” he promises, memory flitting back to his injured wrist and Rey’s novice attempt to heal it. But that hadn’t been nearly as severe of an injury as _this_. “Can you try to stay awake for me?”

She nods limply, eyes still far too glassy for his liking, but there’s an upward curve to her mouth. Her Force signature warms to him slightly on the other end of their bond as he tries to recall the basics of Force Healing from his time as a padawan. It hadn’t been a subject Skywalker spent a great deal of time explaining, more of an extracurricular activity for the older students to work on during their down time. But Ben supposes if Rey could do it by will alone, so can he. 

He reapplies pressure to her oblique, shuttering his eyes closed and taking a steadying breath. But then a twinge of something awfully close to sadness flares out of Rey’s end of the bond, it’s faint, and he probably wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been listening.

Peeking over at her, there’s a disconcerted crease between her brows, even if the rest of her face is rather slack.

He summons up as much comfort as he can, letting it pour through his hand and into her before asking, “What is it?”

Her gaze shifts back to him groggily as she tries speaking again, but her tongue doesn’t seem to want to cooperate with the movement of her mouth this time.

Ben winces, watching her siphon all her effort into forming a few words and trying his best to work up enough confidence to attempt healing her. But there’s an insatiable fear within him he can’t quite get rid of.

What if he only worsens her injuries?

Eventually, she gives up, voice straining across the bridge of their minds to explain, _“We can’t stay...”_

“Where?” he prods, thoughts immediately rushing to the conclusion that she’s asking to be taken to a hospital. He’s not sure how safe of a situation that would be for either of them.

Rey’s eyes well up and she turns away, chin wobbling erratically. _“Here…”_ she says. _“That woman,”_ her head gestures in the direction of the downed bounty hunter stiffly, _“she said she’s been watching us for weeks. There might be more…”_

Ben’s stomach drops. “We can’t stay _here_ ,” he intones softly to no one in particular, watching every possibility he’d ever allowed himself to conjure up about life on Raxus fade before him. Grey and impossible futures. “Oh…” 

“You have—” Rey rasps, coughing gracelessly and trying again. “You have to get rid of her.”

His eyes flit once more to the Mirialan woman, and he cringes. “I need to take care of you first.”

“No.”

“Rey—”

Her left hand plants itself atop his right pressed to her side, cool and slightly shaking. _“Wrap me up, then get her out of here. Get_ us _out of here.”_ Her voice rings strong through his skull, but it’s fleeting, falling dim like before and labored. _“I’ll be fine…”_

He hesitates. Torn between doing what she’s asking or knocking her out gently so she’ll never be the wiser.

It’s the wobbling ‘please’ that parts her dry lips that finally crumbles his resolve.

He bends forward, cupping her face and kissing her glistening forehead as gingerly as he can manage. “I’ll be right back,” he assures against her skin, then sets off to retrieve their medkit.

————

While Ben had made the uncharacteristically noble decision _not_ to slaughter Rey’s attacker, he remedies such elevated behavior by dragging the bounty hunter out of their crew cabin brutishly by her hair.

He catches a glint of amusement in Rey’s tired, grey eyes as he goes, thinking back to when she’d proudly admitted to being a ‘little monster’ in her youth; he continues to find himself more and more inclined to believe her. Perhaps they shared more commonalities than a simple Force bond.

She had taken well to his lackluster medical abilities despite her disgruntled, battered state. Allowing him to fuss and sterilize her wounds, wrapping her midsection likely one too many times over necessary, her injured calf, too. Only wincing a bit here and there.

_“I can barely feel my body,”_ she’d told him as he’d settled her limp form onto the nearest bunk after he’d finished. _“Something in those nanos…”_

_“Lidocaine,”_ he’d decided allowed, trying not to let his worry for her get the better of him. Though whatever was in those projectiles he’d gathered up from the floor and disposed of must have been intravenous; the First Order’s med-droids had only used numb-spray to stitch up his facial wound.

The bounty hunter, he observes, dragging her down the quarters corridor and into the loungport, — a splotchy trail of dark green blood following after them — is outfitted with several other forms of weaponry, as well. Two compact, blaster pistols don her belt along with three vibroblades of incremented sizes, the fourth knife he’d plucked from the floor and set beside Rey’s saber.

Ben pauses a moment, realizing he has no true plan for the ‘disposal’ of this woman. There’s still a part of his brain that’s aching with uncertainty for Rey’s wellness, no matter how vehemently she’s assured him she’ll be all right.

So, without much thought, he begins revoking the bounty hunter of her armament just for something to do.

But he _has to_ think…

Make a plan of action.

Get Rey and himself somewhere safe.

Even if he’s rarely had such opportunities in his life to make decisions of great importance for _himself_.

Others, sure. He could lead a military operation with his eyes closed if he put his mind to it. But _this_?

Escaping to Raxus had been out of necessity and convenience, an appallingly simple decision in hindsight. But he doesn’t know where else to run now. He has nowhere left to belong.

Again.

The bounty hunter lets out a chuffed, drowsy breath below him and he panics, if only for a moment.

Not knowing what else to do, he rushes across the loungeport, opens the only remaining escape pod access, and tosses her inside brusquely. He seals the door, steps back apprehensively, then raises his hand once more to the access controls, using the Force to worm his way into the door’s hold and release mechanisms and disabling them.

He peers into the pod, watching for a moment as the Mirialan woman struggles to regain her consciousness between rows of uninhabited seats. Nodding to himself, he darts out of the loungeport and into the cockpit, starting the freighter’s takeoff procedures without knowing where in the blazes he’s going once he lifts off the ground.

Repulsorlifts: _check_.

Thrusters: _check_.

Sublight engines prepped: _check_.

Fuel: _less than desirable_. But he can deal with that later.

Destination: _away_.

He takes off abruptly, jerkily, not even paying Raxulon’s docking fee and doing his reputation as an ace pilot a disservice in his haste to touch the black of space.

There’s a weight that sinks in his chest once he crosses Raxus’ atmosphere, the dying call of a life he’ll never get the chance to know. A single, cold tear rolls down his scarred cheek, but he swipes it away in less than a second, damning the bounty hunter — likely trying to extricate herself from the escape pod now — for robbing Rey and himself of their peace, damning Hux a thousand times more, damning Snoke for starting it all.

He entertains the idea of blaming himself, too, but a voice in his head that Rey would quite approve of cuts that thought short, telling him he’s done all he can, and that’s enough.

Once he’s at an acceptable distance from Raxus’ field of gravity, he ejects the freighter’s only remaining escape pod with a huff and a bit of sick enthusiasm. Let the blasted woman starve in space for all he cares.

But his pride in himself is short lived as he hasn’t a clue where in the galaxy he and Rey can go from here.

Hux knows what ship they’re flying, so commercial hyperlanes are out of the question. Raxulon had no connection to First Order media, either, leaving Ben in the dark on the basis of their galactic position.

The Outer Rim remains the least dangerous location still, but if one bounty hunter had been able to find them, others surely could as well.

Which begs the question: _how_ had they been found?

His mind latches onto the idea of a tracking beacon instantaneously and he groans, curling in on himself in the pilot’s seat and mumbling ‘stupid, stupid, _stupid_ ’ into his palms ashamedly. He hadn’t scanned the ship for one, hadn’t even let the possibility cross his mind.

“Gah!” he shouts, kicking the underside of the control console petulantly. “ _Fuck_!”

He has a sort-of-fiance in desperate need of medical attention, a bounty on both of their heads, — unsure of how far in the galaxy it extends — no safe destination in mind, and he hadn’t even thought to check for a tracking beacon.

_Force_ , he needs help.

With nothing else to do but plot a course for who-knows-where, he flips the navicomputer on, searching for the nearest systems with fueling stations. He chooses one at random, — a planet called Murkhana he vaguely recognizes — makes jump calculations, then shifts into hyperspace, hopping out of his seat the instant autopilot kicks into gear and barreling back down the quarters corridor into his and Rey’s room.

She appears fine, breathing shallow but steady, face turned away from the door against her dingy pillow.

He steps carefully, sitting down beside her on the small bed and brushing her bare shoulder carefully.

He’d had to strip her down to her under-wrappings to clean and dress her wounds, her makeshift bra and undershorts stained dark crimson with her own blood. He wonders foolishly if a standard wash would be able to return them to their previous beige hue, but it’s likely they’re permanently ruined.

Ben frowns.

It’s such a small inconvenience in the grand scheme of things, but he can’t help but despair in her being denied even the most nominal of luxuries.

She stirs as he strokes idly up and down her arm, nose twitching tiredly. Her head tilts slightly in his direction and he notices silvery tracks running down her ashen cheeks. His heart clenches.

“Rey,” he sussurs, swiping her tears away. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?”

She sniffs, red-rimmed eyes opening and peering up at him hazily, still looking a little lost to the galaxy. “Are we gone?” she asks stuffily, throat sounding beyond sore.

His brow pinches as he nods, solemn.

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know yet,” he offers, tucking a frazzled strand of hair behind her ear. “We’re stopping at a refueling station in the Murkhana system, but I don’t have any ideas after that. I’ll have someone scan for a tracker while we’re there, though.”

Rey’s eyes widen in all their puffiness, fear painting her pale features. “There’s a beacon on us?”

“I’m not sure,” he tells her, shaking his head to dispel her alarm. “It’s just a precaution.”

She relaxes a little at that, tilting her head so her nose brushes his knee beside her. He smiles dimly.

“We’re going to need help,” she mutters, unbearably quiet.

“Yes, we are,” he admits aloud.

A brief glance into her mind is all he needs to know exactly where her thoughts are heading, somewhere he doesn’t care to seek help from, his stubbornness preventing the very notion.

_“We can figure it out on our own!”_ he’d declared at her mention of the Resistance all those weeks ago.

And perhaps they can’t in all reality, but he can’t go there either, no matter how desperately Rey might want him to.

“Sorry,” she rumbles, taking note of his silent reaction to her idea.

“No, it’s—” he starts, but cuts himself short, knowing it’s anything but fine.

There’s a thoroughly uncomfortable silence that plagues the air around them until Rey speaks up again, changing the subject, “How long before we get to the refueling station?”

“Less than an hour,” he responds swiftly, grateful for something else to think about.

Rey hums her drowsy acknowledgment on a yawn.

“Do you want to try and sleep?” he asks, brushing her cheek again.

“No,” she rushes, eyes bulging and pleading. “No, I want to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Anything. Just—” She yawns for the second time in half a minute. “Just keep talking, please…”

He simpers, leaning down to kiss her forehead, then asking, “Any more feeling come back?”

“A little,” she answers, smacking her lips with something like disgust. “My mouth tastes like metal, though.”

“How about this?” he hovers a hand over the wounds at her oblique.

“Can’t really feel it.” Her gaze drifts down to her bandaged middle, apprehensive and just this side of clouded. “Is it bad?”

Ben hesitates, chewing on his lip before responding, “I think it looks worse than it really is…”

A curt, amused sigh passes through her lips as she closes her eyes again, pinching them suddenly in pain.

“Rey?” he rasps, cupping her cheek in alarm.

“I’m fine, it’s fine,” she mumbles, waving him off. “Headache.”

He sits back, shaking his head and wiping a hand over his face. “Fuck,” he rumbles under his breath. “This is awful.”

“What is?”

“You, like this,” he clarifies, ignoring the belligerent face she pulls at his words. “Are you cold?”

“Um, maybe?” She contemplates his question a moment more. “I don’t—” A cough. “I don’t really know. Everything’s sort of fuzzy. I don’t think so, no.”

He takes her hand, fiddling with her knuckles and humming. Her skin is still terribly icy. Lips, too, as she tilts her head and kisses the side of his knee, cold seeping through his pant leg.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, peeking up at him.

“For what?”

“Everything.” Her answer is vague, yet so, so telling. “All of it…”

He smiles, sniffling as he kisses her as gingerly as possible. Then he remembers.

“I have something for you,” he says with a little showmanship and pride, reaching into his pocket, relieved to find the ring box is still there. He pulls it out, wincing a little at the dingy, cheap look of it. He hadn’t made his promise ring purchase from as affluent a place as Rey had for him, and it shows. “Sorry it’s not… _more_ ,” he mutters, opening the box to show her it’s contents.

She grins, craning her unsteady neck to get a better look, then grins some more. “It’s a flower,” she whispers, delight and awe charging her wispy voice. “I _love_ flowers…”

Removing it, he replaces the ring on her finger with a contented smirk at his success. “The saleswoman told me it was made from Velanie. Supposedly, they’re equated with gratitude. And love…”

“Mhm…” Rey lays her head back, raising her left hand for closer inspection, drowsy eyes admiring the twists and curls of petals and leaves within the resinite. “That’s nice…”

Ben chuckles, watching her brow furrow with tiredness. “Ready to sleep, now?”

She sneers, but there’s no bite to it as she nuzzles at his leg with likely unintended affection. “Maybe,” is all she utters before dozing off, snoring almost instantly.

————

If attempting meditation while Skywalker watched wasn’t already a strange enough task, attempting meditation _with_ Skywalker is stranger. He’s able to fall into mental isolation so effortlessly Finn wonders if he’s simply pretending just to save his pride at this point.

General Organa’s participation doesn’t ease Finn’s already lacking ability to ‘clear his mind’ either. She won’t stop fidgeting, just as unconcentrated as himself despite her contagious desperation _not_ to be so.

If the situation weren’t as dire, — if Rey’s life weren’t possibly on the line — he might have found the picture the three of them paint amusing.

But that’s not the case, and it’s beyond frustrating, really.

It’s morning, but only the cusp, afternoon heat readily approaching and making his brow sweat with increasing stuffiness and effort. A bead rolls into his pinched eyes, stinging and salty. He all but growls with aggravation.

He can’t kriffing _focus_!

Throwing his hands up, he falls back onto the gritty stone of the roof, glaring up at the cloudless sky and letting angry tears pour out over his temples. If the General notices, she makes no comment.

He lies there for who cares how long, wishing more than he’s ever wished that he could just control these damnable ‘ _feelings_ ’ he gets instead waiting for their erratic and inconvenient appearances.

His eyes burn and his lips are chapped by the time General Organa speaks up, hushed and stiltedly caring, “It’s not as strong now…”

Finn lifts his head, glancing at Luke’s still immaculately meditative form before returning his attention to Leia. “What is?” he asks, gentler than he’d expected himself to be.

“I could feel him, my son,” she says, tapping the side of her head absently. “It hurt, for a little while. It was as if his pain was mine. But I can barely sense him now.” Finn arches a brow while she sighs, staring out across the lofted, grain-filled landscape the lodgings roof provides. “The echoes feel calmer, though. That’s good…” 

Finn’s not entirely sure he’s ready to engage himself in a conversation with the General about her son that he’s made his disapproval of violently clear, but he supposes it beats what he’s been doing most of the morning.

“What was it like?” he asks cautiously, not quite knowing how to word his question. “Your vision of him, from earlier…”

“I’m not sure I can explain it,” Leia mutters. “It came from here,” she gestures to the center of her forehead, pauses, then to her heart as well. “It’s happened before; often when he was a boy. Luke would call it a Force bond, like the one he and I share as siblings. All in the family.”

Finn nods, trying to keep his curiosity at an acceptable level. “He said Rey and… _Ben_...might have one of those, too.” The statement leaves a stale, unwanted taste in his mouth. “Would you know anything about that?”

Leia sighs thoughtfully. “They very well could. The Force is strange like that.” She chuckles under her breath. “Hell, I’m an old woman and I still don’t understand it in full. Neither does Luke despite what he’d tell you.”

Finn snickers, at a loss for what else to say.

“What about you?” the General prods, a rare openness donning her expression. “How did you know? Sense Rey, I mean.”

_That_ is something he’s certain he won’t be able to explain properly. “I don’t know… I could see her, but my eyes were closed. I could smell and hear and feel somewhere else, I think, without being there.” He huffs out a breath at how nonsensical he sounds. “It was quick. But I _knew_ it was her. I would have known even if I hadn’t seen her… Does that make sense?”

Leia smiles softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “You have a strong connection. That will be helpful in finding her and my son.”

Finn feels his expression twist, for more reasons than the General would care to hear, so he plays it safe. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that. I can’t control any of _this_...” he snaps, motioning around his head for emphasis and scowling.

“I couldn’t, either, at first,” General Organa offers, her good-naturedness diminishing, if only just. “I was about your age when I discovered the depth of my abilities, and had someone not much better off than myself as a teacher.” She smiles timidly once more. “I understand what you’re going through, I really do. But if I may,” an expression of asking comes upon her face and Finn nods for her to continue, “stressing over your progress will only stunt it. Let the Force do as it will, it’s not ours to control, only to study.”

Something in Finn’s chest tugs in agreement and he gasps, coughing to disguise his surprise. “Thank you,” he tells her hoarsely.

Leia gives him a companionable tilt of her head, then hums, asking, “Shall we try again?”

With only a slightly begrudging nod, Finn reassumes his position of meditation and lets his eyes fall closed peaceably.

Perhaps the act of searching had been his problem in the first place. No ‘feeling’ ever came to him when he was looking for it. _Let the Force do as it will,_ he repeats to himself, not attempting to clear his mind but allowing it to empty on its own time.

He sighs, waiting… 

———— 

Ben knew, upon coming out of hyperspace, that Murkhana might not have been the wisest of decisions in terms of a stopping point.

The atmosphere of the planet is totally smogged, nearly impossible to see through, even with the Force to help guide him towards the refueling center the navicomputer keeps insisting is close.

He makes it though, with only his optimism slightly tainted.

It’s a behemoth of a structure, the fuel depot, large and steel and vaguely resembling an outdated medcenter. Landing pads litter the roof, holographic signs flashing out in blinding yellow, **_"TRANSPIRATORS RECOMMENDED"_** , every few platforms.

Groaning dully to himself, it’s times like these he still longs for his helmet, if only for its practicality.

He sets the freighter down at the nearest pad, then realizes, with some befuddlement, that there’s nothing else on the roof. No ships or storefronts or fuel canisters for sale in sight. Just thick, musty green fog.

It’s with a ‘harrumph’, then a stilted ‘oh’ of surprise, that the landing pad the ship is settled upon begins to descend, lowering itself down into what Ben can only hope is the real business of the refueling center. It’s slow going, but he watches out of the viewport as a temporary seal closes over where the freighter had been, waiting for the platform to return. Eventually, though, his landing pad comes to a halt in a hangar-like room opening out into a bleak, industrialized trading-post.

It’s an unwelcoming sight, but it’s far better than running dry on fuel in the deep nowhere of space. And besides, there’s something in the no-nonsense grime that sends him back to his childhood and the rare ‘adventures’ he’d take with his father from time to time.

He shakes his head, returning his attention to his lack of a transpirator or breathing-assist, _but_ , he supposes he does have Rey’s old wrappings at his disposal.

Stepping out of the cockpit and unlatching the boarding ramp, Ben dodges quietly into his and Rey’s crew cabin, carefully rifling through their disorganized pile of clothes and snatching up the first sign of the grey, gauzy fabric. He wraps it around his head, securing it over his nose and mouth, allowing it to double as a disguise alongside a health precaution.

Before he heads out and tries to make quick work of refueling and potential tracker removal, he kneels down beside Rey’s still sleeping form, wiping a thin layer of sweat from her upper lip and wincing. He needs to be _more_ than quick.

By the time he’s down the ramp and well enough into the hanger, he notices a mechanic’s station and fuel tanks stored behind. Nodding to himself in an attempt to bolster his courage, he makes his way over to where a slightly run-down WED-15 Treadwell waits behind the counter, its cubic visual sensors catching on to his movement as it chirps out in likely scripted binary, **_“Do you require mechanical assistance?”_**

“No,” Ben rumbles, trying to keep his voice low despite nothing sentient seeming to be around. “I need six fuel canisters and a foreign tech scan if you offer them.”

The WED-15 whirs around abruptly, activating repulsorlifts attached to the fuel tanks and sending the amount he’d asked for out past the counter, ready to be loaded once he pays. The droid then disappears into a room half-hidden behind the canister shelving, leaving Ben with nothing to do but wait until it returns with whatever help it requires to scan for a tracking beacon.

He leans against the counter, peering out past the hangar’s entryway and into the thick of the trading-post.

Dingy, white glow panels line the high ceiling, painting everything in a sicklier shade than is normal. The occasional haggard spacer makes their way through the dust-coated place, mainly staggering out of what appears to be a sad excuse for a bar, clutching breathing-assists close to their faces clumsily in their varying degrees of inebriation.

Ben chuckles to himself, reminded, for whatever reason, of his childhood once again. Of lazy afternoons spent around the dining table of his home in Hanna City, drinking copious amounts of date juice and playing no-risk sabacc with his father and Chewie and… 

Ben feels the whole of his body go rigid as an idea occurs to him. A terribly stupid, stupid, _perfect_ idea.

Well, perhaps not perfect, but it’ll certainly spare more of his pride than anything Rey can think up in regard to their situation.

Spinning back around along the countertop, he catches sight of a small pit droid taking inventory amongst the shelving. “Hey!” he calls out to it, suddenly frantic but in only the best way he can imagine. “Hey, I need to make a comm call. I’ll be in the cockpit,” he points behind him to the freighter, “let me know when my ship’s scan is done.”

The dome-headed droid beeps out an affirmative, shooting him the closest it can manage to a thumbs-up, but he barely acknowledges it, sprinting back up the boarding ramp with a fury.

He throws himself into the cockpit, wasting no time in powering on the comm system and punching in a set of numbers he’s had memorized since he was two. Fidgeting with excitement and nerves while he waits for the other end of the transmission to pick up.

But it never does.

So he tries again, bouncing on the balls of his feet and willing the comm to go through.

Nothing.

He pounds in the code a third time. Then a fourth. And a fifth. Sixth. Seventh.

Nothing. Nothing. _Nothing_.

A cry of apprehension escapes his chest as a thought he hadn’t considered occurs to him: the code could be dead. Out of use. Abandoned and replaced. No one there to pick up. To _help_...

No.

No, he has to keep trying. He can’t let it go this easily; he’s too desperate for that.

He’s in the process of typing out the old, old comm code for an eighth time when the unmistakable sound of violent, throat-burning retching echoes throughout the freighter. Followed not too shortly by what is undoubtedly the thick splatter of vomit against metal.

He’s out of the cockpit in half a heartbeat, rushing down the hall to find Rey twisted over the edge of their bunk, sweat and tears staining her ashen face as she all but convulses, arms wrapped weakly about her twitching middle.

“Ben,” she croaks as he falls to his knees before her, pushing damp hair out of her face and wiping her mouth with his shirt sleeve; she looks a whisper of herself. “Ben,” she tries again, unfurling her left arm from around her torso and showing him her hand. It’s blood stained.

“No, no, no…” He shoves her other arm away, watching as red seeps through the thick wrapping at her side. He whines. “What happened?”

“I don’t— I—” She pitches forward, dry heaving over his shoulder with a sob. “ _Ben_.” Her voice is hoarse and high. Frightened.

He catches his hands under her armpits, lifting her up then cradling her against his chest as he rushes to the ‘fresher, her hitching whimpers right beside his ear as he runs.

Not even bothering to disrobe, he turns on the shower and tucks Rey inside, unraveling her bandage and letting the cold water rinse over her reopened wounds. He holds her head back against the wall, keeping her nose away from the frigid spray as she cries into his hand.

“Rey. Rey, can you hear me?” he tries, tamping down his alarm to keep her from sensing it. “Rey, sweetheart?”

She nods limply, wheezing.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He wishes he didn’t sound so childlike in his questioning, so _afraid_ , but he doesn’t think it’s something that can be helped. Because _he is_ afraid. And worried. And _confused_.

They need help. Force knows they do.

It just doesn’t seem willing to offer itself up.

Ben asks her again when she doesn’t respond the first time and she shakes her head in a way that tells him she doesn’t know rather than she can’t explain. He swipes her hair back when another dry heave rips through her.

He notices then that her muscles are twitching, particularly around her abdomen, and it occurs to him that this might have more to do with whatever was in those nano projectiles, — and how much of it is coursing through her system — not her flesh wounds.

But he has to store that thought away as the metallic ring of the comm system sounds from the cockpit, drawing a curse out from him as it does.

_Why now?_

But then… _Now_ is good. Now is exactly what he needs if it’s help he’s seeking, after all.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to Rey right before he picks up her again, tucking one arm around her sopping back and the other under her thighs. She cries against his shoulder in protest but he’s not about to leave her in the shower to accidentally drown herself.

With hurried, yet cautious steps, he climbs up into the cockpit, planting himself carefully in the pilot’s seat, Rey’s shivering, wet body curled in his lap. She sniffles against his neck as he reaches across the control panel to accept the comm call, the rough sound of her breathing filling the room when the transmission connects.

It’s not too long, though, before she’s joined by the sound of a deep, aged voice, exasperated and quite possibly confused as it demands, “Who the hell is this?”

And suddenly, Ben can’t breathe. It seems a lifetime since he heard that voice and now he’s at a loss for words, whatever he’d planned to say, if anything at all, has been forgotten.

“For kriff’s sake,” the voice swears on the other end of the transmission. “You comm and comm and comm me just for some fun, huh? This is a private code, don’t comm again.”

“Wait!”

The static of the transmission stays. They haven’t disconnected yet.

“Wait, I—” Ben swallows around a lump in his throat made from childhood memories and promises he hopes weren’t empty. He has to try. He has to try for Rey. “Uncle Lando, I— I need your help.”

There’s an intake of breath on the other end of the line. Then, “Kid?”

Ben feels his shoulders begin to shake.

“Ben, is that you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Andy Samberg screaming and playing the guitar*
> 
> Here we are again, on the pain train. CHOO! CHOO!
> 
> I still love you, though, and I still hope you enjoyed!<3


	22. Little Starfighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux wins galaxy's biggest asswipe for, like, the bajillionth time. Finn deals with failure quite maturely, thank you very much. Rey is so confused, help her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looooong chapter ahead...  
> You'll also notice that breaks in the narrative of this chapter look a bit different than previous ones between simple scene shifts and complete POV switches. I'll be editing the rest of them in this fic slowly but surely in the hopes that transitions are made more clear :)
> 
> CW:  
> Mentions of injury and near-death  
> Mentions of weight loss  
> Gratuitous amounts of fluff as an apology for the last two chapters

There is a distress signal awaiting the Supreme Leader when he returns to his quarters.

His thoughts have been so preoccupied by various accounts of ‘nothing found yet’ and ‘Fial system is a dead end’ from his bounty hunters over the last few days, he doesn’t much care to see who sends the transmissions anymore in his aggravation. It’s all the same news.

But a _distress signal_ … 

From a comm code his logs don’t recognize— if his intuition serves him correct, the pattern is indicative of a standard escape pod beacon.

_That_ is enough to pique his interest.

He opens it with an enthusiasm he hasn’t felt since he had that idiotic Nabooian man executed.

At first, there is nothing. Only static and a slight, erratic whirring sound, like pressurized air. And then follows a wheeze so lung-deep, so _ravaged_ , that no humanoid species could have possibly made it. No sentient, for that matter.

Hux winces, debating momentarily whether he cares enough to listen to the rest.

There’s another wheeze, — this one less grating — then, “Raxus Secundus.” The voice on the prerecorded signal is vaguely familiar, even in its graveled state. “Raxus Secundus,” it repeats. “Raxulon, my ship is in Raxulon, at a repair garage. Gorora’s Repairs. It’s armed with a tracking beacon. I can still get to them.” A terrible cough sounds through Hux’s comm systems, but he pays little attention, already taking note of the locations the voice he now recognizes as Emim’Ai’s lists off. “I was jettisoned from their vessel, but I was able to incapacitate the girl. My coordinates are S-5. I repeat, S—”

Hux shuts off his comm.

_Raxus Secundus…_

He can’t believe he was so daft.

Of _course_ Ren would take them there. His mother had been a politician once. No doubt she would have been aware of the former Separatist world’s hesitance to join the New Republic, and their ultimate decision to remain apart.

And Ren, it would seem, capitalized on that knowledge, beyond certain of the First Order’s lack of presence in the Tion Cluster.

The Supreme Leader clenches his gloved fist.

He’d almost had them.

He’d almost had them and Emim’Ai — his least incompetent bounty hunter, so far — had failed in securing his fugitives.

“Well,” he mutters bitterly to himself, comming Lieutenant Garan on the bridge with a bored press of his finger.

“Supreme Leader?” she answers stiffly, though not without a twinge of apprehension.

“Make preparations to depart from the fleet, Lieutenant. Set a course for the Tion Cluster, Raxus Secundus.”

“Yes, sir,” she drones, tone mildly reminiscent of a question.

And Hux can’t blame her. The _Finalizer_ and its fleet could have made the jump from the Kuat sector to the Tion Cluster _weeks_ ago when the Knights of Ren had deigned it high time to make contact with them. But he’d been hesitant to follow their lead so blindly, sending out his bounty hunters to scope the area instead before he allowed his flagships the opportunity to waste fuel. And it would seem his precautions have served him well.

“Lieutenant,” he calls out. “Ready a shuttle for Major Peavey and inform him he will be receiving the Order’s commission from the Drive Yards on the _Harbinger_.” Though he doesn’t fully trust the former Captain, the Supreme Leader knows the older man will be able to handle further monetary negotiations with Kuat and their Supervisor in a civilized manner, and sees no other reasonable option for such a responsibility.

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Garan repeats. “Will that be all, sir?”

Hux sighs, contemplating the question and eyeing the notes he’d taken from Emim’Ai’s distress signal; the chrono stamp from the transmission had still been relatively recent. If they jumped now, and made no stops along the way, — which is _entirely_ feasible — the _Finalizer_ could reach the Raxus system in enough time to apprehend the stranded bounty hunter and send her back out into the field with her health.

But…

She failed, hadn’t she?

Though, not without leaving a considerable amount of potential leads right at Hux’s eager fingertips.

_A tracking beacon_ , he thinks, allowing himself to be impressed despite his frustration with her.

Perhaps she’s proven unworthy of rescue, but it would be a shame to let the information she’s gathered pertaining to Ren and the girl go to waste. Her ship, at least, is worth the First Order’s time of day.

“I plan on conducting witness interrogations once we arrive in the Tion Cluster,” Hux tells his head of bridge communications. “That could burn a great deal of fuel should they take a considerable amount of time. Take the Hydian Way to the Celanon Spur. We’ll stop in the Dantooine system to restock our fuel canisters first.” He nods to himself, pleased with his calculations. “That will be all, Lieutenant.”

“Very good, Supreme Leader,” Garan replies stiffly before signing off.

And Hux couldn’t agree more.

 **————————**

They never do get a good latch on where Rey and the General’s son are. No more visions, or bond openings, or _feelings_.

Not even Skywalker catches wind of anything.

And there’s a sense of dejection that flows out from the three of them, Finn especially, into the rest of the Resistance. A cloud of failure hanging low over everyone’s head.

Even Rose seems put out for reasons she can’t begin to quantify as anything particularly personal. Just the slightest air of hopelessness— which General Organa attempts to mitigate rather fruitlessly with busier work schedules.

Finn rarely sees his friends in the days following his, Skywalker and the General’s failure.

Poe is preoccupied double, triple, _quadruple_ checking recruitment rendezvous points that don’t look like they’ll be put to use anytime soon as Leia and Verlaine are busy rewriting every damn ‘inspirational’ speech Luke is going to have to end up filming again, much to his great disgruntlement.

The General also had Rose reassigned to head of the mechanical department after the lasting fixes she’d put into the _Falcon’s_ comm systems, so she’s just as unavailable as everyone else. Overseeing other’s work instead of getting to put any time into her own.

Mealtimes are sporadic, too.

There’s no telling who’ll be in mess and when, so Finn decides meals are better taken in his room rather than in Sashasa’s sprawling dining hall where having genial, unawkward company is no longer a given.

Because the eyes of the Resistance are still on him, eager to catch a glimpse of his budding abilities. Abilities he’s more sure of now, but not quite in the regard he’d prefer.

The Force exists within him, he knows that to be true. He just can’t fully _grasp_ it yet.

And it’s not for lack of trying. He’s become exceedingly well versed in the process of clearing his head in the days following his vision of Rey and the encouragement Leia had given him. Put in the hours of practice outside of training with Skywalker to hone his attempts at meditation.

He’s not entirely sure if he sleeps anymore. But he doesn’t seem deprived of it either. In fact, he feels more rested than he has in a long, long while.

Which only makes his failure to locate Rey sting all the more.

He’d gotten the whisper of a sense his second day working at it on his own. A shadowy inclination of a marble city and dying, orange trees. But when he’d gone to tell Skywalker of his hopeful success, he’d found him looking over a new First Order broadcast with the General, Poe, and other higher-ups. The planet being described as the last known location of ‘The Fugitives’ — Raxus Secundus — was exactly that of his vision.

Everyone in the communications bay had waited for a response from him.

Urgency. Concern. Perhaps, even anger.

But he’d left without a word, telling no one of his scant success and returning to his quarters to continue working.

And if anyone had been alarmed by his behavior that day, they’ve yet to make it known to him...

**————————**

Rey is floating.

Not between life and death, but somewhere in her subconscious, surely. Numb to the galaxy she blithely reminds herself is still around her.

_I survived!_ she tells herself for hours, days, weeks, years. She doesn’t know the time, nor does she care.

The last thing she remembers is Ben coming back for her, lightsaber in hand and vengeance in his eyes.

Or, no.

That wasn’t it.

He had been soft. He’d held her warm against his chest and took care of her bleeding body, hadn’t he? He’d called her _sweetheart_.

But there was something else. A voice she can’t recall ever hearing before. A pain in her head and in her gut that threw everything into a hazy, muddled relief.

The foreign voice bisects her unconsciousness every now and again after the first time it speaks. Sometimes it shouts, gravely and strained and terribly _sad_. Sometimes it speaks in hushed, concerned tones, asking if she’s all right. But really, Rey couldn’t care less about the voice, only that Ben always responds to it.

Because she _knows_ Ben’s voice. Knows its waver and octave. Knows when he’s uncertain or troubled or obstreperous— he seems to be drifting back and forth between those three at random as of recent.

As for why, she can’t say.

Though, in rare bouts of self-awareness, she realizes that it must be herself. _But I’m ALIVE!_ she wants to shout at him, giddy and fresh and desperate for him to see how perfectly well she is.

Most times, though, she is left puzzled. Wondering in agony why Ben isn’t with her in this nowhere-place, this in-between where pain is relative. When she remembers she should be writhing with it, she does, but more often than not she feels nothing.

She wakes up once or twice, hears _music_ and that strange voice along with it, scolding something like, “You’ll ruin your back sleeping in that chair every night.” Then Ben’s groggy reply of, “I don’t care.”

She thinks she smiles at that, but she can’t be sure, everything is so… 

…disconnected.

But it’s warm here. In the heavy blanket of unconsciousness. Warmer if Ben were with her, she thinks, but still good.

If someone were to tell her she’d have to spend the rest of her days here, she would mourn, of course. For the friends she would never see again, the galaxy she’d never witness healed, for her _love_. But she would learn to accept the comfort of emptiness, a loneliness that can’t be helped, nothing to blame for it but the limits of the human body.

Yes. She could stay here if she had to.

No war.

No bounties.

No Light side or Dark.

_No Ben…_

Rey’s eyes fly open. White light pours in, cold and bright and _terrible_. Stars, her retinas burn. As if she were staring straight into Jakku’s great, big bloody sun.

“Shit!” she attempts to croak out, only to come upon the disconcerting realization that her voice is gone and her throat is on _fire_.

She reaches up, straining to grasp her neck, but is met with resistance along her right arm. Blinking away the intrusive light and trying to focus, her unsteady gaze settles as much as it can upon the crook of her elbow, where a ghastly amalgamation of tubing and wires seems to be penetrating her skin.

An unnerved gasp parts her dry lips as she tugs on her ‘constraints’ yet again, purely out of instinctual stubbornness.

_Where am I?_

Her eyes flit about the room, but it’s still too damn _bright_. Only grey edges and angles against the white; blurred and slow to register in her brain.

Rey yanks on her right arm once more and something comes loose. She doesn’t care to find out what, only concerned with her new freedom of movement, scratching at her sore throat and feeling about her surroundings semi-blindly.

A shrill beeping sounds out beside her and she startles, squinting to examine the source of the noise. The hazy, blue glare of a holoscreen shines in her bleary eyes. But before she can properly focus on it — and what in the blazes it’s reading — the nearby rustle and shift of fabric catches her attention.

Rey turns towards the sound, where a large, blurred form begins to move in a way that she would categorize as drowsy.

She attempts to voice her previous question of where the hell she is to it, but her vocal cords are all but unresponsive. Nothing more than a squeak departs from her lungs. And that damn beeping just won’t quit, will it?

“Rey?” the out-of-focus form asks, voice sleep-addled yet so heart-wrenchingly alert. “ _Rey_!”

And then there are large, warm hands holding fast to her face, a weight pressing down beside her on the mattress she must be laying on. Rey smiles, so much so it hurts. Because she knows these hands. She knows this voice and this warmth. Better than anything else in the galaxy.

_Ben…_

She mouths his name as his pale features begin sharpening into focus. The long nose, the trembling chin, the tears already staining the hollows of his cheeks. But she doesn’t get long to look because the next thing she knows his lips are on hers and she is _breathing_. His life filling her lungs and hers filling his. He gasps into her mouth, hands shaking where they’re planted on either sides of her ears— and even those feel suddenly alive and warm.

_All_ of her is.

“I’m alive,” she says scratchily against his lips. “Ben, I’m alive.”

He nods, never retreating fully from the kiss, keeping their noses touching even when he parts for breath. “I missed you,” he whispers, shuddering as he says it. Then again, “I missed you. I missed you. I missed you,” as he pecks his lips all over her face, her hairline, her ears, her neck.

She laughs, and it _hurts_ , but that doesn’t stop her from doing it. She laughs until her sides burn and Ben’s joined in with her, an overjoyed noise interspersed with helpless sobs. But then, her sides had hurt before she’d had cause to laugh, hadn’t they? Her right in particular.

Reaching down in the natural movement that goes along with a good chuckle, she rests a hand on her stomach only to find that she _can’t_. Something plastic and cold and oddly buoyant encircles her waist, and when she looks down at it in alarm — accidentally plinking her forehead against Ben’s — she’s reminded of the bacta suit the Resistance had put on Finn before she’d left to find Skywalker.

And suddenly, any concern or confusion she’d had for her own well-being is negated by the notion that she’s—

That Ben brought them—

“Is this the Resistance?” she rasps, eyes straining to take in her surroundings for the umpteenth time as Ben shifts uncomfortably beside her.

Before he can confirm or deny her suspicions, though, the wide, enamel-plated door she only just noticed across the room slides open abruptly, what looks suspiciously like a medi-droid wheeling it’s way towards them.

A smaller, similarly wheeled droid with a conical head and chipping green paint follows fast behind, squawking out, “DISCONNECTED, DISCONNECTED,” in modulated basic.

“What?” Rey mutters to herself, turning back to Ben for an explanation, but his eyes are cast downwards and his mouth has a sour turn to it.

**_“Sit back, please,”_** the medi-droid instructs in binary, its wheel-mount extending so its height is level with hers and its thin, jointed arms can press her back into the mattress.

She huffs, watching with equal parts fascination and shock as the boxy droid beside her clasps her right arm and begins reinserting all the tubing she’d ripped out earlier. Once it’s done, — and Rey’s befuddlement is in full force — it spins about, adjusting something on the holoscreen that she’s now realizing is attached to her ‘wiring’, then calling out, **_“Scanning toxin levels.”_**

“Wait, wait,” she coughs, facing Ben once more and making sure he’s facing back. “What happened to me?”

He winces, lips parting to respond, but another intrusion makes its way through the door, effectively stealing away Rey’s attention.

It’s a man. Older. Shorter than Ben, but most certainly taller than herself. He’s impeccably dressed; even with her scant grasp of fashion, she knows that to be true. A short, stylish cape ripples off his shoulders, complemented by an expensively tailored, jewel-toned dress shirt. There is an equally stylish cane in his hand and he looks apt for business, anticipative. A roguish — yet genuine — grin tugs on his lips.

When he speaks, his voice is haltingly familiar, smooth and rough all at once, “We were all wondering when you’d finally come to!”

_Huh?_

Rey feels Ben’s hand grasp her own, almost more to reassure himself than her.

“Who are y—” She stops, examining the strange man more closely, a flicker of recognition firing at the back of her brain. She’s seen his face before. On _wanted_ posters and in criminal databases. “You’re Lando Calrissian!” Rey blurts, the puzzle pieces finally slotting together. “You’re a war hero! You’re—”

Ben groans beside her, burying his face in the crook of her arm, head shaking in what she can only assume is embarrassment.

The older man laughs at her realization, eyes crinkling pleasantly. “Good to know I haven’t aged beyond my reputation. The Little Starfighter here barely recognized me when you two touched down,” he comments, nodding to the overgrown lump clinging to her arm.

Ben looks up severely, glaring at Calrissian while Rey snickers nervously.

“Uh, sorry,” she mumbles. “Thank you, by the way, I think, but uh—” She coughs, stumbling over her raspy words. “Where the hell am I?”

The old war hero’s face falls a bit, but he doesn’t seem disinclined to answer her question, which is nice. “I apologize for the lack of a welcoming committee. When Ben brought you in you were in pretty rough shape, we weren’t sure of how much you’d be aware.”

“Oh-kay,” she drawls, glancing over at Ben and the restrained look of terror dancing in his eyes. Her stomach clenches. “How did we get here?” she whispers, not sure anymore of whom she’s speaking to.

There’s a weighty silence that fills the room. The _medbay_ , she’s coming to realize. _I’m in a medbay…_

Ben’s mouth opens and closes, uncertain, hesitant.

Lando finally speaks up, once again, “Ben called in a favor.” Both men flinch in tandem. “But he didn’t need to,” the old war hero remedies, an apologetic gleam in his eye. “Favors and family are two things that should never go together.”

Rey feels something rather childish flare on Ben’s end of the bond. But it’s not petulant or self-pitying. It’s helpless. It’s _needy_.

She squeezes his hand tighter.

“No conditions,” Lando says with a soft resoluteness, stepping slowly out of the medical room. “I’ll give you two some time, we’ll talk more when you feel up to it, Rey.”

And then he’s gone with a tasteful swoosh of his cape and the smaller, green droid trailing after his heels.

The medi-droid, though, stays. Poking and prodding at the holoscreen beside her, then at herself once again, snatching up her right hand and clamping a sensory detector over her wrist. **_“Admirable toxin levels. Rechecking pulse.”_**

Rey nods absently, not knowing what else to do. Then mutters to herself, or perhaps to Ben, she isn’t quite sure, “How does he know my name?”

“I told him about you,” Ben mutters back, eyes unwilling to meet hers.

“How does he know _you_?” she tries again, leaning towards him proddingly, only to be pushed back into her bed by a mechanical arm. She coughs, allowing herself a moment of exasperation to roll her eyes before looking back at Ben.

There’s an unreadable expression on his face, and his mouth barely moves when he answers her, “Lando and my father were old friends. He was like an uncle to me…”

Rey let’s that settle in her mind, in her _bones_. The idea that Ben had deigned this man safe, a ghost from his past, still living and breathing, is an odd one to her.

“So this isn’t the Resistance?” she asks after some time, phrasing the question as delicately as she can.

He still won’t look at her. “No.”

And she’d expected that, knew it deep down that they wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , ever find themselves in debt with General Organa. In a way, she understands his reservations. Understands that he is, to some extent, a man remade, and that not everyone might be willing to accept that. Perhaps, not even his mother.

Without really thinking about it, she raises his balmy hand to her lips, kissing a ‘thank you’ into his skin and smiling.

“What’s this for?” he murmurs, tracing the pleased draw of her mouth with his free fingers.

She shakes her head, smiling wider. “I’m just…proud of you, that’s all. That you brought us here.” She watches as boyish satisfaction flits across his face, and then he pounces.

Sort of...

It’s awkward positioning, him trying to avoid all of her tubing just so he can hold her, shooing away the medi-droid once it’s finished with _whatever it’s doing_. But it doesn’t really matter to Rey because he’s kissing her and it’s wonderful and she’s alive and—

“Where is, mmph! Where is here, anyway?” she asks against his persistent lips, stifling her laughter.

“Garel,” he slurs, tucking a careful forearm under her shoulders. “Lando’s place,” a kiss, “Garel City,” another, “technically, the criminal sector,” _another_. “But I don’t care terribly much about all that because, stars, you’re _awake_. You’re alive…”

Rey hums, low and contemplative, snaking her free hand up his spine and combing it through the hair at his nape.

“Was I— Was it really that bad?”

He refuses to look at her again, lashes fluttering in something like shame atop his cheeks.

Rey sucks on her cheek absently. “I don’t remember, really,” she tries, angling his face back up to hers. But there’s resistance in his gaze, not of the stubborn sort that she’s guilty of quite frequently, but almost as if he’s unwilling to even think on what had happened to her.

She shudders at the thought.

Helplessness is something she tries to avoid out of necessity. It’s not good for her pride or, like it had been on Jakku, her health.

Yet here she lies in a medbay, completely unaware as to what could have happened to her. Except for…

“The woman,” she mutters, realizing. _The woman from the garage…_ “I remember that woman attacking me.”

“A bounty hunter,” Ben adds, stroking her cheek with a trembling hand.

“She _shot_ me!” And the memory of pain returns, sharp, biting, burning pain. In her calf, in her side. Then numbness.

“I had the medi-droid analyze the residue on the nanos I brought from the ship...after we got here.” His brow furrows and he swallows. “But your blood tests confirmed everything I’d been thinking, anyhow.”

Rey chews her peeling lips, watching him do the same, deliberating on what to say and how to do it. So she interjects whatever thoughts he’s having with her own logical reasoning, “I was poisoned.”

“In a way,” Ben shrugs, attempting nonchalance but failing miserably. “The nano-projectiles were lined with lidocaine, not meant to be used in high capacities, but…” He trails off, glancing at her bacta-suited middle. “They were.”

Rey nods, juggling that information about in her brain when a question breaks into the forefront of her mind. “How long have I been out?” she asks with a renewed sense of urgency.

“Medically,” he explains, careful of his words, “a week and a day.”

She sputters. _Six days…_

“But you weren’t exactly lucid on the way here, either, so—”

“How long did _that_ take?” Rey can feel her pulse rising, hear it coming from the screen beside her.

Ben winces, then murmurs, “Eighteen hours, give or take.”

“Eighteen hou— I—” She sweeps her gaze across the sterile, white room again, needing something else to look at besides the wetness gathering in Ben’s eyes. She settles on the gurgling tubing attached to her bacta suit and sighs. “How am I not dead?” she wonders aloud.

Ben rustles the scratchy sheet beneath her, clutching her arm and returning his head to its crook. Hot tears burn her skin.

“It’s disputed,” he starts, breathless and warbled, “that individuals with Force sensitivity might have a different physiology than those without. That the midichlorians can have an affect on immunities and— And—” He hiccups, stalling his rambling enough for Rey to lift his head, to swipe away his tears. “I tried to heal you but—” he whispers, leaning into her palm. “But it’s likely your body attempted to stabilize itself after you went into shock.”

“I went into _shock_?”

“Yes,” he sniffles, massaging his temple with the heel of his hand. “The medi-droid says it seemed to work for a little while, but if we’d have gotten here any later you wouldn’t have…” He swallows. “You wouldn’t have made it.”

Rey stares at him. Unsure of the swell of emotion rising within her.

It’s not fright anymore, or even a survival instinct.

It’s _mortality_. 

That isn’t to say she’s never been faced with such a reality before. Jakku was a harsh place absolutely brimming with swift modes for death. It’s just…

...she hasn’t had anything worth living for until now.

She might have thought so back as a naive youth, waiting for her good-for-nothing, dead parents to finally be there for her. But it was a hollow motivation. Eventually, whether she wants to admit it or not, she would have puttered out and let the wind and the sand take her.

But now she has _Ben_. And Finn and Chewie and Leia and BB-8, even Luke. So many people she can care for, so many things worth surviving for.

The realization is nearly too much for her to process, already bringing on a swift headache, so she latches on to the first question her mind can think up. “Wha— What are midichlorians?” she asks, voice rough and far too timid for her own liking.

Ben shakes his head, clinging tighter to her arm. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not even sure if I believe they exist,” he rumbles. “And if they do, they didn’t do very much to help _this_.” He points resolutely to her right side, where a twinge of rawness still radiates.

Rey eyes it while he continues. “It’s patched up well enough now, but there’s a high probability it’ll scar.”

“Okay,” she says under her breath, memory straining. “I don’t actually remember how bad it looked before, so I suppose that’s just as well…”

Ben ‘hmphs’, a vengeful, childish look forming in his eyes; Rey chuckles. “I already have plenty of scars,” she assures him, hoping her forced positivity turns into something more genuine. “It’s all right.”

“I know,” Ben sighs, stroking a small, insignificant, silvery-white one on the nub of her elbow. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to acquire any more.” He sighs again, shame replacing his petulant expression. “I shouldn’t have gone out that day. I shouldn’t have left the freighter, period. You were right, what you said after we left Naboo. It’d be safer, _smarter_ , if I just stayed on the ship.”

“Ben—”

“ _No_ , you wouldn’t be like this if I had been more cautious. I was careless. I always am, and it’s only going to get us into mo—”

“Ben!” she shouts, grasping his hand and squeezing it roughly. He stares at her, wide-eyed and trembling. She takes a recentering breath. “I think you’re forgetting that I’m the one who got a job between the two of us.”

He scowls. “Yes, but if I had been on the ship, instead of buying you a cheap promise band, you wouldn’t have had to come back home to a bounty hunter!”

Both still.

Rey feels her eyes sting with tears.

“Home,” she whispers, thinking of their stolen freighter and the mantle now bestowed upon it. Its scrappy bunks and tiny refresher. The still broken mirror, never replaced, and the char marks in the durasteel cargo holds from all their sparring matches. The second crew cabin to the right where they slept each night, where she gave a sapphire promise ring to Ben and asked him to marry her.

Her gaze tracks down to their clasped hands and the flowered band she just barely recalls having him slip onto her finger. The blue of his ring glitters next to hers with the overly bright lights in the medbay.

She sniffs. “I didn’t come back home to find her…”

“What?”

Rey shakes her head, attempting to dispel the pressure growing in her nasal cavity. “She came to the garage, pretending to be a customer,” Rey tells him. “And _I_ should have been more cautious because she made me suspicious and I did nothing about it.”

Ben looks at her not quite in disbelief, but something rather close. “Why not?” he prods.

“Because I didn’t want to believe that I was anything but a normal person, Ben. And I think that goes for you, too…”

He doesn’t dispute her words, but he doesn’t particularly acknowledge them either. There’s a skittishness in his expression that reminds her of Finn, when she thought she’d lost him on Takodana to his fears.

Her anxiety flares.

“We’re both to blame,” she declares, leaning forward painstakingly and kissing his brow. He brushes a forearm over his leaking eyes. “And we’re both going to do better.”

————

She’s discharged from the medbay two nights later.

The medi-droid Ben not-so-affectionately refers to as Doc had been pleased with how well the synthflesh applied to her oblique had taken and decided she was healed enough to go.

Rey hadn’t even known what synthflesh was until she was removed from her bacta suit and confronted with the sight of it. Evidently, it’s renowned for increasing healing speeds in tandem with bacta and creating less gruesome scarring, but there’s a small — regrettably, ungrateful — part of her that would have just preferred an ugly, puckered, natural account of her wounds.

The patchwork is obvious. Where the skin of her side is still her own, sensitive, pink pockmarks mar the previous smoothness. But the synthflesh — intended mainly to bond gaps in her muscle and skin that the bacta couldn’t effectively knit, Ben had told her — is sallow and tough; it stands out against her skin tone like a slab of pale leather glued to her oblique.

But then again, she’s rather pale in comparison to what she used to be, as well. She’s only glimpsed herself once in the ‘fresher mirror attached to the medbay, after Doc insisted she get a proper scrub down before being discharged and left to her own devices. The sight hadn’t been an encouraging one.

There’s no flush to her cheeks, and her hair — even after being cleaned — seems duller than she remembers it. Any muscle or fat she put on while on Raxus has been shed, too, her legs like twigs barely holding her wiry body up.

Yet for all the change, she’s used to this. Used to being weak and keeping going despite it. Unwellness is nothing new.

Ben, however, is far from indifferent towards her state of being.

He spent the two days after her waking up waiting anxiously at her side, clinging to her hand or brushing her ratted hair, playing songs she still doesn’t know the names of from their music ball.

Doc had seemed displeased by his constant presence, which is how she’d discovered that Ben hasn’t been as unoccupied during the day as he is now.

Apparently, he’s spent his mornings and early afternoons working for Lando on _something_ he’s not been too eager to disclose and that the medi-droid seems completely unaware of— aside from knowing that Ben hadn’t been crowding the modest medbay all hours of the day and then, suddenly, he was.

It’s a relief for all, though, now that she’s ‘free’.

She hadn’t particularly appreciated being constantly attached to some form of tubing with fluids she can’t even spell being pumped into her, Doc instructing her time and time again to, **_“Sit back, Miss”, “Move carefully, Miss.”_**

But Ben seems to share the same sentiment as the medical droid because he’s supporting her weight so delicately as they leave the medbay she could scream. _My leg healed up perfectly fine, you know?_ she entertains snapping at him, but thinks better of it.

The hall they enter is just as sterile smelling as her enamel-plated ‘prison’, though not as blinding, thankfully. Ben leads them confidently down it, towards a room a tad larger than the medbay, with expensive lounging furniture and large, blacked-out windows. Connected to it is what appears to be a kitchen and bar, but Ben gives no pause to either as he takes them across the room and down another, less medical looking hallway.

He hasn’t given her much detail in the past two days in terms of Lando and his home— or their current relational standing. Only that his uncle, for all intents and purposes, is allowing them to stay as long as they need, and that it would be wise, with their present situation, not to wander too far from his flat. He’d also mentioned that Lando is as much a war hero as he is a swindler, which hadn’t struck Rey as surprising with what little she knows about him.

She’d tried asking once what work he’s been doing for his uncle in the past week, but he’d brushed her off with a simple, _“Moving crates,”_ and nothing more. _Conveniently…_

She also hasn’t seen Lando since her first day awake, which had made her suspicious to start, then simply increased her curiosity in regard to his and Ben’s relationship all the more.

_Is there a tension unresolved between them?_

Of course there would be if she factored Han into the equation. But then… 

_Does Lando know what happened to Han?_

How could he not? How could Ben withhold information like that from him?

“Hey,” Ben murmurs, clasping her shoulder gently and halting her motion. “This is us.”

Rey refocuses her attention on their surroundings. They’ve reached the end of the hall, a narrow doorway tucked into the left-hand corner before them. Another glance around her and Rey notices the few other doors adorning the walls appear wider than this one. She raises an eyebrow.

Though, Ben seems unfazed by it as the entry slides open and he leads them inside.

It’s then that Rey is presented with the largest bed she’s ever seen in her life, and her jaw drops suitably. Or perhaps it’s quite an average sized bed and the absolutely _minuscule_ surrounding room is doing it a few favors. The only floor space that lines the mattress is at the foot, walls confining it snugly on its other three sides, while seemingly all of their belongings are crammed into the corner farthest from the door.

“Uhm,” she tries, glancing up at Ben and the blasé look on his face, then back at the room. This, too, seems unsurprising to him. “Wow,” she says under her breath, still ogling the cramped mattress and its neatly tucked pillows and sheets.

“This is a closet,” Ben informs her casually, “‘fresher’s the first door off of the living room.”

“Is that the big room?” she asks, eyeing him warily.

“Uh,” he scratches the back of his head, flushing a bit, “yeah. I know this— This isn't a lot, but all the extra bedrooms are full, so…”

“Full of what?” she pries, stepping further into the _closet_ and lowering herself carefully onto the edge of the bed.

Ben’s eyes flit down to her injured side anxiously before he responds with an air of crypticism, “Crates.”

Rey groans, flopping back onto the mattress; it’s certainly softer than the bunks in their freighter. In their _home_...

“Doc said you’re not supposed to move too much,” Ben chides, inching closer. “At least not until the synthflesh washes off.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves away his concern, sitting back up. “What’s in the crates?”

He glares at her for a second or two, then snickers exasperatedly. “I don’t know,” he says with an amused, stubborn gleam in his eye. “ _Technically_...”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re in the criminal sector, remember?” he explains, crouching down in front of her and massaging her knees placatingly. She huffs. “I told Lando I didn’t want to be intellectually affiliated with his black market business, even if I am the muscle.”

“But he told you anyway,” she guesses, breathing out a laugh. He nods as she continues her questioning. “Who moved the crates before you, then? And what’s _in them_?”

Ben sighs, resting his forehead atop her thighs and mumbling, “He’s been paying hands for a day's work, nothing consistent. He offered to pay me, but I told him that wasn’t the point.”

Rey brushes his hair back, — it’s surprising how much longer it looks with almost two weeks gone by — then whispers, “The point of what?”

His cheek brushes along the tops of her knees, rough with the start of stubble, as he murmurs, “Atonement.”

Rey’s breath hitches. But her awe is short-lived as Ben starts to laugh, _really_ laugh. His smile burning itself into the skin of her thighs, drawing one out of her, in turn.

_What is it?_ she sends him in between spurts of chuckling, stroking the dimples on his cheek.

“Nothing, it’s just—” He shakes his head, raising his twinkling gaze to hers. “It seems a little counterintuitive, doesn’t it? Begging for forgiveness by aiding and abetting criminal activity.”

Rey snorts. “Maybe not abetting. But _it seems_ like you’re dealing with it pretty okay, though, huh?”

“Well,” he runs his palms over the outsides of her thighs, a contemplative look befalling his expression, “I nearly watched you die. My perspective on the galaxy at large has shifted a bit.” The corner of his mouth ticks up nervously, _genuinely_.

And Rey kisses that smirk.

He hums against her lips, hands hovering painstakingly close to her waist while she tugs on his hair, just this side of impatient. A chuckle rises in the back of his throat as her tongue flicks past his lips, — just as appetent as her hands — rolling against the roof of his mouth, coaxing his to the same level of attention. She draws him closer, no more than an inch or two, but he pulls away promptly.

“Wait, wait—” His palm runs under her shirt, calloused fingertips ghosting over the synthflesh on her side, only the slightest indication of sensation making itself known throughout her nerve endings. “This,” he murmurs, caressing the false skin again.

“What about it?”

He blinks at her, momentarily baffled, then, “Well, does it hurt?”

Rey reaches under her top with him, — it’s new, _soft_ , just like her undergarments; clothes Ben had asked Lando to go out and get for her recovery — pressing his fingers more firmly against the affected area. He hisses at the movement, something that she should be doing, perhaps, but all she feels is a whisper of rawness deep in her muscles. Nothing more.

“No,” she answers him with a hint of challenge in her voice.

He doesn’t seem content at that. “I just...don’t want us to rip something, or—” He works his jaw with apprehension. “I don’t want you to have to go back to the medbay, that’s all…”

“Don’t worry,” she sniggers, cupping his cheek gingerly then pinching it. “I’ll go easy on you.”

A grin breaks out across his face and he sighs in such a dreamy fashion Rey considers the possibility that he might be pulling her leg. “I really did miss you,” he mutters, dispelling her disbelief and leaning forward so his words brush against her lips.

“I _am_ quite miss-able,” she jokes, scooting a little further back on the bed, bringing Ben with her. His touch favoring her left side despite all her assurances.

“You have no idea, but…” And he pauses, lifting up her shirt hem and glaring sourly at the angry scar forming on her skin. “But this worries me,” he rumbles.

She growls over dramatically, tugging on his ear. “You’re very frustrating, you know that?”

“Mmh,” he kisses the tip of her nose. “I must have learned it from you.” She flicks him between the brows, but he only smiles. Then, expression turning grave, he murmurs, “Indulge me, please…”

“Are you sure you know what indulgence is?”

He levels her with a tired glare and she raises her hands up in reluctant defeat. “Fine. Fine. I’ll stop bothering you.”

“Oh, you can bother me all you please. Just—” He sprawls out beside her on the mattress, fingers entwining with hers between their bodies. The bed is large enough they can both lie on their backs with some space to spare, but not so large they can’t reach one another from opposite ends. “Let’s just wait a few days, at least until the synthflesh comes off.”

Rey debates his proposition, the stir-crazy, essentially high-on-life part of her brain demanding that she argue, but the logical part telling her he’s being careful and that that’s something they could _both_ use some work on.

So she rolls onto her left side — the one she’s allowed to lay on — and kisses his shoulder by way of an agreement. If curling up beside him is all she can do to be cautious while he worries for her, while they hide once again from the prying eyes of the galaxy, then she’ll gladly do it. Even if, after all this time, she’s still not accustomed to this sort of waiting game they’re playing. Even if she hates complacency down to her very core. She can do this for him.

For _them_...

Ben rolls onto his side, too. Nosing at her hairline and whispering against her forehead, “Thank you.”

————

Rey finds herself incapable of sleeping that night. Despite the furnace-like warmth of Ben beside her and his heartbeat pumping in rhythm with hers, the bed is just too damn _soft_. And that’s a shame because it really is quite comfortable, she’s just not used the luxury, no matter how small.

So when the tiny chrono atop the pile of her and Ben’s things deems it officially morning by the planet’s standards, she crawls out from under Ben’s arm and their blankets, and goes to investigate the rest of Lando’s flat. She stops, though, to slip on her boots, gaze catching on the green leather of her favorite jacket, but averting quickly.

Ben told her he’d patched up all the holes the nano-projectiles had left behind, which is all fine and good, but looking at it only makes her think of how it was what she was wearing on her last day at the garage. Of her coworkers and whether they might be worried for her. She’s been gone for nearly two weeks, after all.

But that’s a headspace she has no business being in, so she gets up and moves — always on the move — instead of thinking.

Stepping out into the hallway, with a quiet look back at Ben’s sleeping form, she realizes she wouldn’t have been able to tell what time of day it was had she not checked the chrono. The blacked-out windows of the living room make the large sitting space seem forever bathed in the dark of night, and the glow panels lining the walls are dim enough for seeing to be the slightest bit of a chore.

Upon closer inspection, though, she notices that the windows are actually transparent to a degree, — even if she can’t get much of a visual peering through them — but perhaps not to the world outside attempting to look in. And that strikes her as rather clever, despite there being nothing in the immediate room around her worth being suspicious about.

Well, perhaps the furniture is high end enough to look a tad out of place from what she knows about criminal districts, but none of the crates Ben keeps skirting around explaining are visible, and _whatever’s_ in them.

“S— SICK LADY!” a mechanical voice calls out from behind her, and she whirls around, heart catching in her throat.

But it returns to its usual placement in her chest when the small, green droid she remembers from the medbay a couple of days ago wheels itself out from what she thought was an alcove in the kitchen, but appears now to be an entryway. She casts a confused glance down at the cone-headed droid as he rolls to a stop at her feet, visual-receptors scanning her up and down.

“You’ll have to forgive D-O,” a familiar voice says, carrying into the kitchen along with the click of heels and Lando Calrissian. He looks tired, but kindly. “His programming doesn’t permit the most personable of dialects. I think he was mistreated by his previous owner.”

“No it’s—” She stops, shame flushing her cheeks as it occurs to her that she was just snooping, even if unintentionally. “Sorry for...being here,” she tries again, pinching her eyes at how pathetic she sounds.

But Lando tuts, shaking his head with a smile. “No need to worry, you’re my guest. What’s mine is yours,” he says. “Can I get you anything?” And he motions to the kitchen around him, then to what she assumes is a home bar. “A drink?”

A small amalgamation of dark, colorful liquids lines the back wall of the whole setup, only adding more to the overly posh, non-homey feel of the place. It truly is a strange apartment, at least by her standards.

“I don’t drink,” she tells him, assertive, though attempting kindness.

He nods. “Caf, then? I can brew some, if you’d like.”

She’s about to tell him she’s never had caf before when the little droid, _D-O_ , taps the toe of her boot with his wheel somewhat impatiently. His conical head tilting this way and that while she looks at him, mumbling, “Water is fine, thank you.”

“Sure thing,” Lando affirms, moving fully into the polished kitchen to retrieve her beverage.

“Sick lady,” D-O repeats quietly, bopping her shoe again.

Lando laughs, so Rey chuckles through her confusion. “She’s not sick anymore, D-O,” Lando explains. “She’s all healed up, right Rey?”

_Huh?_

“Oh, yes!” She smiles timidly down at the little droid. “All healed up.”

That seems to make it exceedingly happy if its tiny victory laps are anything to go by. She snorts, pleasantly surprised.

“I found the little guy about a year ago in an abandoned rock mill,” Calrissian says, handing her a glass of water and flashing a smile. “No idea what he was doing there, but I thought he might be good for parts. Found out all he needed was a recharge and he’s been following me around ever since.”

Rey hums, watching he wheeled droid reroute to zip around Lando’s cane.

“How are you feeling?” The older man asks her as he trails back into the kitchen to fix himself something, D-O hot in his heels.

“Better. Good,” she supplies, taking a sip of her drink before asking something that’s been itching at the back of her brain since she woke up in a medical bed. “Why do you have a medbay? I mean, I thought this was the Resistance at first, it’s very nice, but— Why?”

Lando snickers, mixing two rather unappetizing looking liquids together in a short glass— and that’s saying something on her part. “You promise you won’t laugh?” he prods, raising a good-natured brow at her.

She shakes her head.

“I’m old, Rey,” he answers, plain and simple, though there’s still an impish glint in his eye. “I’ve had a minor heart condition for well over a decade now, but it’s only getting worse with age.” Then he shrugs, throwing back his concoction with a wink. 

“Oh,” she mutters, a bit uncomfortable suddenly. “Sorry…”

“Don’t be. I used to have to lug myself into the central city to go to a doctor, but now I have my own and he charges _nothing_.”

Rey chews on a piece of ice from her glass, mulling that over. “How did you get a medbay, though?” she finally asks. “And Doc?”

Calrissian smirks at her, looking as if he has a secret he’s not in the habit of actually keeping. “I’m a successful businessman, Rey. What can I say?”

And that’s how Rey finds her in, so close to the answers Ben’s been denying her she can practically hear them already. “So you must be in the crate business, then, yes?” she pries, keeping her face neutral, swallowing the smugness in her voice.

“Ha! The Little Starfighter told you about those, huh?” Lando sniggers, then sobers quickly. “I do apologize for sticking you two in that tiny closet. Had to move some merchandise up from my hangar to make room for your ship when you got here. Hopefully by next week I’ll have everything reorganized so you two can have a proper room.”

There’s true remorse in the old war hero’s eyes that makes Rey, surprisingly, more thankful for his help than she had been upon waking up two days ago and realizing where she was. The longer she knows Ben’s uncle, the more she’s inclined to wonder why they hadn’t just come here in the first place. Then it strikes her how much Calrissian reminds her of Han, and she pushes that thought deep, _deep_ down almost the instant it forms in her brain.

_Crates. Merchandise,_ she reminds herself silently.

“He still in bed?” Lando asks after a moment. “Ben?”

“What? Oh, yes, he is.” She rocks on her heels, wanting to ask for what seems the millionth time what in the hell he actually does for a living, but holding her tongue for a better opportunity. “Do you need him this morning?” she prods instead, hoping the question will veer the conversation back in the direction she wants.

“No, no,” he waves her off, “let him rest. He needs it after all those nights trying to sleep in a chair next to you.” Then the older man gives her a look like he might know something she doesn’t, or perhaps it’s a look of pride, rather. As for what, he doesn’t say.

Instead, he puffs out a tired, amused breath and changes the subject. “Well, Rey, I’m glad you’re feeling better. Go back and get some more sleep. I’m off to work.”

_Oh._

She thinks, for a moment, that this is her _last chance_ to ask him what he does, what he’s selling, but miraculously, he beats her to it.

“They’re blasters,” he says knowingly. “Non-regulation mufflers welded on. I don’t deal with any of the hardware, I’m just the pretty face that sells ‘em.” He winks at her, making his way back to the entryway he’d come from with a winsome smirk.

Rey’s a little flabbergasted, to say the least. “I—”

“I could tell you wanted to ask,” Lando explains with a dismissing wave of his hand. “Tell the Little Starfighter I said to sleep in, will ya?”

And then, he’s gone.

Leaving Rey with a slightly slack jaw and a head still full of questions.

She realizes, as she takes a final swig of her water, that she still doesn’t know if Ben told him about Han.

————

She trods back to her and Ben’s ‘room’ with feet just as leaden as they are light, knowing, perhaps, that it’s not her place to ask, but wanting the assurance regardless.

There’s a high chance that, of course, Ben told his uncle what had occurred between him and his father all those weeks, _months_ ago on _Starkiller Base_. He had mentioned atonement to her and seems hellbent on seeing it through, but is his guilt still internalized in terms of Lando?

Has he been working for him just to make the blow of reality easier on the older man, hoping that they won't be turned away after the fact?

She doesn’t know, but she’s anxious to find out.

And yet, the sight of him once the narrow door to their narrow room slides open causes her to reconsider.

He’s rolled fully onto his stomach in the time she’s been gone, dark hair a right mess falling over his face, puffing up with each exhale he releases. It’s a youthful sight. The look of someone who isn't weighed down by the failures and secrets of his past.

That’s not to say she still won’t ask him, later, when he’s awake and well-rested. But she won’t be afraid to do so anymore, having a strong idea of what his answer will be.

So she crawls back into bed beside him with a great deal more aplomb than she’d had speaking to Calrissian, or even walking back here. He stirs as she combs the hair away from his forehead, lips twitching unconsciously, endearingly. She grins at him.

“Rey?” he mumbles, bleary eyes attempting to blink away the sleep.

“Mhm…” she hums.

“What—” He yawns weakly. “What time is it?” And his question is in stark contrast to the lack of urgency in his body language— he appears loath to wake up.

“Early morning.”

At _that_ , his eyes round. “I should get up. I told Lando I’d—”

Rey places a hand on his cheek, stilling him. “He said not to worry about it. You can stay in bed.”

Even in relaxing back into the sheets, Ben looks uncertain, eyeing her with confusion and a hint of alarm. “You spoke to him?” he asks. And after she nods, “When?”

“Just now. He gave me a glass of water,” she says, leaving out that she’d technically been caught sneaking around.

And Ben doesn’t really seem nervous in regard to that information, just a little taken by surprise, is all. “What’d you talk about?” he starts, scooting closer to her and bringing his warmth along with him.

“You,” she tells him, cracking a smile at the look of affront that washes over his face. And just to get more of a rise out of him, — because it’s so easy and she _can_ — she tacks on through her laughter, “Little Starfighter…”

“Hggggggnnn,” he groans, burying his face in the pillow to hide his reddening cheeks. “Please don’t start, it’s bad enough he still remembers.”

Rey gasps, mockingly offended, though terribly curious as to what could have caused Lando to pen such a nickname for his nephew. “Well, you get to call me _sweetheart_. I have to have something.”

He peeks up at her then, a little hopeful and a lot embarrassed. “You remember that?”

Her lips find his brow as she whispers, with no small amount of satisfaction, “I do. And I think it sounds nice…”

“Yeah?”

She nods, tucking herself closer against him and kissing under his chin. He shivers. “I suppose I’ve called you love once or twice, that could work…”

A rush of affection and Light and something bordering on puerile need pours through the bond at her words, riding along the brightness of the smile that shines through his drowsy eyes. “Yes,” Ben agrees softly. “Yes, I like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I aware that D-O was found on a Sith sympathizer's ship in canon?  
> Yes.  
> Do I care?  
> Obviously not.
> 
> I love that little droid as much as I love you, and I hope you enjoyed! <3


End file.
